Warrior Shepherds
by AngelxPhoenix
Summary: They were called to destroy evil, but crossing paths with a wayward soul meant compromise. And in compromising, the MacManus brothers get more than they bargained for. Connor/OC/Murphy (rated M for violence, language, and sexual content)
1. Emergency Room

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Boondock Saints or any of the characters therein. That honor lies with Troy Duffy. Let me start with a brief explanation...my story starts somewhere in the middle of the first movie. I wiggled my plot into the canon (why do I feel like I'm taking a huge chance doing that?) and let it roll. I'll guide you along as I need to, and I hope you decide to stick around. Rated M for violence, language and sexual content. The violence and language are nothing you can't handle, and as for the smut...well, we'll see about that, won't we? ;) Review, if you'd be so kind, and subscribe if you're so inclined.**

**And away we go!**

There are a few passing similarities between a bar and an emergency room: the smell of alcohol hanging in the air, the general confession of pain and woe, and a number of people in sore need of a drink. Given the right bar at the right time of night, it is also possible to find the same number of injuries.

Connor and Murphy MacManus sat in the waiting area, by all rights lucky to be alive after their tangle with Checkov and his comrade. Connor glanced over at his brother, sitting quietly and staring down at his boots, and he didn't have to ask to know how shaken he was. They had been in plenty of fights, but they had never come as close to death as they had that morning—or worse, losing each other. He examined the bandages on his wrists where the Russian's handcuffs had cut him in his desperation to get to his brother in time, and he couldn't help laughing softly.

"Somethin funny?" Murphy asked.

Connor shook his head, still chuckling. "Wait'll I tell Ma I had ta jump five stories with a fuckin bog to save ye," he told his twin.

"Well, look who's got jokes," Murphy replied. "Wait'll I tell her you started it when ye set some poor bastard's ass on fire. Might not've needed savin then, right?" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then added, "What the fuck were ye thinkin, ta do somethin like that? Had ye lost yer fuckin mind?"

"Musta," Connor replied, still looking at the bandages. His wrists hurt like hell now that the adrenaline of the moment had worn off, but he hadn't felt a thing when the metal bit deep. "They were gonna kill you, Murph. For fuck's sake, I had ta do somethin."

"Aye," Murphy replied. "Ye always have ta be the fuckin hero. I wouldna lived with myself if ye got yerself killed tryin ta save my ass. Ye didn't think about that, did ye?"

"Fuck no," Connor shot back. "An' you wouldn't have either. Ye woulda done the same for me."

Murphy fell silent. He was right, of course. If it had been Connor in danger, Murphy would have torn down the gates of Hell to save him. That's how it was with them, how it always would be. They would die for each other in a heartbeat. They didn't need to take on Russian mobsters to prove it.

Connor gave him a nudge with his elbow. "Hey," he said, "we made it, right? All in one piece."

Murphy heaved a sigh, feeling some of the tension slide off his shoulders, and nodded.

"An' I'll bet I looked pretty fuckin stupid, jumpin off the roof with a toilet."

"Like somethin outta yer stupid movies," Murphy told him, beginning to giggle. "A real big time hero."

They shared a laugh, shoving playfully at each other, then leaned back in their chairs and gazed around at the ER. A little boy sat nearby looking around the room with apparent nerves and curiosity, momentarily ignoring his wounds. Three nuns who arrived shortly after the brothers continued to mumble prayers and talk in whispers. Sitting farthest away was a scantily-clad young woman, her arms folded tightly across her shivering frame and her face so badly beaten one eye was swollen shut. She wiped blood from a cut on her cheek and locked eyes with the brothers for a moment before looking away.

Murphy turned to Connor and said, "So, what're ye thinkin? Should we go ta the cops?"

Connor shrugged. "It was them or us, wasn't it? Just walk in an' explain without a fuss, we haven't done anythin wrong." He slid a foot under his chair, pushing the bag underneath it further out of sight. Something inside shifted and spilled out; he bent down and scooped up a fallen watch and several wads of cash and put them in the bag, straightening up with a muted curse and finding the little boy watching him. He put a finger to his lips and winked; the boy smiled.

"I called Doc," Connor went on. "He's on his way down."

"An' after he gets here?"

"Still workin on that."

The door at the end of the hallway opened and a man strode into the waiting room. Among the wounded, he stuck out like a parrot in a flock of sparrows with his flashy clothes and excessive jewelry. He scanned the faces in the room, settled on the beaten woman and went to her, talking in a low, harsh voice.

Murphy groaned and massaged his temples. "Christ, my fuckin head..."

"_Your_ head?" Connor shot back. "Been pistol whipped lately? Might have a concussion after—"

Raised voices drowned him out as the man and the beaten woman began to argue, the words amplified in the quiet room.

"—not putting up with your shit, now let's go!"

"Fuck you, I just got the shit knocked out of me, and—"

"And you'll get worse if you don't move your fucking ass!"

The little boy glanced warily at the pair and the nuns had fallen silent, their faces alert. The man grabbed the woman by the arm and tried to yank her from her chair, but she resisted. "You're in enough trouble, bitch, and if you don't start walking—"

"Man, just relax, would ye?" Connor cut in, edging forward in his chair. Beside him, Murphy imitated his movement. "The lady's had it hard enough, ye don't gotta be—"

"Stay out of it, asshole," the man snapped.

"Ye're makin people nervous," Murphy chimed in. "We got women and kids in here, so why not calm yerself down?"

"Why not mind your own fucking business?" He turned back to the woman and tightened his grip on her arm. "Last damn chance, either get up or I'll haul your ass out of here."

"I haven't seen a doctor yet," she protested.

"I don't give a shit!"

"She's made it pretty clear she's not leavin," Connor interjected, an edge creeping into his voice. He and Murphy leaned even closer to the pair, ready to spring into action. "I'd be respectin her wishes if I were you."

"I don't have time for this," the man sneered. He seized the woman by the hair and dragged her to her feet; she tripped in her high heels and fell with a cry of pain.

The brothers leaped to their feet and started towards her, but Connor barely made it two steps before his legs folded beneath him. Murphy hesitated a moment before turning and helping him back into his chair. Across the room, the man kicked the woman in the ribs as she continued to struggle; the nuns gave exclamations of shock and the woman curled in on herself, gasping for breath and clutching at the man's wrist as he dragged her by the hair to the door.

Connor was beside himself with rage, still trying to rise from his chair but restrained by Murphy. "What the fuck's wrong with ye, Murph?" he demanded, trying to stand. "Stop em, do somethin!"

"Calm down," Murphy urged, pushing him back. "Just take it easy, ye can't do nothin when ye can't even walk."

"So ye're just gonna sit an' watch?"

"Listen—" Connor struggled and Murphy pushed him back again, one hand in the middle of his chest. "Listen ta what the fuck I'm tellin you," he insisted. "Ye can't be the hero this time. Ye'll get yer ass kicked, an' he'll take it out on her later. Ye gotta let it go, man."

Connor stared after the man, shooting daggers at his retreating figure. "He's bad news, Murph," he insisted. "Bad news."

"I know," Murphy replied, "but he'll have his day." He turned to the man and yelled, "He'll have his fuckin day!"

The man didn't even look back. The woman gazed after the brothers, no longer fighting her captor, and Connor and Murphy watched her until the man hauled her through the doorway and disappeared.


	2. Hit and Miss

** Chapter two... Fast forward to the Sin Bin. There is method to the madness, trust me.**

**A little summary for Di (movie fans, skip this paragraph). After turning themselves in for killing two Russian mobsters, the MacManus brothers are let off on self-defense. That night in the Boston police department, they share a dream calling them to destroy evil men. They hit more Russians at the Copley Plaza hotel and learn their friend Rocco, a package boy for the Italian mafia, has been sold out and his boss is trying to kill him. They decide to eliminate Pappa Joe's right hand man, Vincenzo, at a strip club and take out two others along with him. At this point, my story picks up. **

** Don't forget to leave me some love!**

"All right, fine, hang onto your little prayer, but we still need our own thing, like a slogan or something."

"Why's that?"

"Why the fuck not? We're like the three musketeers in here, man!"

"Ye know, maybe he's right..."

"Are ye fuckin serious?"

"Aye, but I think 'all for one and one for all' is taken."

Connor and Murphy laughed between themselves at the joke while Rocco looked from one to the other with an irritable expression. "Just trying to get into the spirit of the whole thing," he grumbled.

"No worries, Wyatt Earp, ye got plenty enough spirit," Murphy informed him, clapping him on the shoulder and ruffling his hair.

They stood in the back hallway of the Sin Bin, loud music reverberating through the walls. Once Rocco had finished off the two men in the booths next to Vincenzo, the brothers went from one corpse to the next, laying out the bodies, folding the hands and placing pennies over the eyes. Connor draped a robe from the dressing room over the unconscious dancer before they left, casting a sly look at Rocco who avoided his gaze, looking awkward.

The brothers holstered their weapons and hid their masks in their coat pockets. Rocco paced back and forth, gun still in hand and adrenaline coursing through his system. "Fuck this," he said, "there's got to be more fuckin assholes around here, there always is in places like this!"

"Ye speakin from experience there, Roc?" Murphy japed.

"I'm serious!" Rocco burst out. "Let's fuckin kill the bastards!"

"We've stayed long enough," Connor said, nodding towards the room where they had left the dancer. "She's gonna be comin 'round any minute now, an' we can't be here when she does."

Murphy nodded his agreement and Rocco stowed the gun, looking disappointed.

They set off up the hallway, Rocco leading the way to the back exit. Rowdy voices punctuated the music from the club's main room, but Rocco steered them towards the back of the building.

"Ye know the way around here, Roc, I'll give ye that," Connor commented.

"I was errand boy for a regular customer," Rocco groused, "that's how I got familiar with the layout."

"Yeah, _that's_ how," Murphy needled, and Rocco shot him a sideways look.

They approached the door onto the back alley, and when they were still ten feet away it swung open. They froze in their tracks, Connor and Murphy covertly reaching for their weapons, and a woman stumbled into the hallway.

At first glance she looked homeless, with unkempt brown hair, dirty clothes, and an old backpack slung over one shoulder. After a second look she appeared to be a prostitute, wearing a black openwork mesh top and a mini skirt under a dark green coat and with one heel snapped off her stilletto boots. Under a third examination she was clearly drunk as drunk can be. She wove and staggered as she walked, further impeded by her broken shoes, her bloodshot eyes focused on nothing, and she wore the smell of booze the way another woman would wear perfume.

She closed the door and took several more precarious steps down the hallway, caught sight of the three men ahead of her, and paused. Her brow furrowed and she swayed where she stood, her gaze sliding from one face to the next. "Who the hell are you?" she asked.

Connor, Murphy and Rocco exchanged glances before Connor replied, "On our way out. Who're you?"

"I'm looking for someone." She examined their faces again, asking, "You seen him anywhere?"

"Seen who?"

"That fucking bastard who—" She stumbled and pitched sideways into the wall, the backpack sliding off her shoulder and landing on the floor. Something inside smashed; she cursed and unzipped the bag to look. "Aw shit..." she groaned.

Connor and Murphy took the lead, edging past her on the way to the door. She looked up and lunged towards them, latching onto Murphy's arm. "You can't go," she said. "Tell me where he is, I know he's around here somewhere."

"I'd forget about it, sweetheart," Murphy replied, trying to brush her off, but her grip was deceptively strong. "Why not call it a night and head home?"

She shook her head, the motion making her entire body wobble. "Can't do that, I've got to find him tonight."

"Whatever ye have with him'll keep til tomorrow," Connor told her, steering her away from Murphy.

"No, it won't," she argued, her voice rising. "I've got to find him so I can kill him." She drew a switchblade from the backpack and snapped it open.

The brothers drew back, instantly alert. Behind them, Rocco burst out, "Holy shit!"

She shifted her attention to him, a gleam of recognition springing to her eyes. "Is that Rocco?" she asked.

"Aw shit, she knows me," he groaned, moving to pull his mask down over his face too late then stopping himself; if she had already recognized him, it was a wasted effort. "We're fucked now!"

"Who is she?" Murphy demanded, his eyes riveted on the blade in her hand.

"She's one of the fucking dancers," Rocco told him.

"An' she can put a name ta yer face?" Connor asked. "Jesus, Roc, how often are ye in here?"

The woman ignored the exchange, focusing again on the brothers. "I know you," she said, as if trying to convince herself. "I _know_ you..."

Rocco began to pace again, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "So how often do _you_ guys fuckin come here if she fuckin knows _you?_" he challenged. "We might as well just start handing out business cards!"

"Roc, shut it!"

It seemed to take more and more effort for the woman to stay on her feet as the alcohol caught up to her. The knife fell from her hand and she repeated one more time, "I know you." She took a few staggering steps towards them, wobbling on her shaky knees and broken heels, then tripped over her own backpack and fell face first into the wall, knocking herself out cold and leaving a smudge of blood from one of the cuts on her face.

Connor and Murphy rushed to catch her before she hit the floor and her head lolled back on her shoulders, her hair falling away from her face. "Murph," Connor said, "it's her, the one from the hospital!"

Murphy studied her face, then his eyes widened. "Fuckin hell," he swore, "ye're right!"

She looked even worse than she had days before. The old bruises were fading but there were fresh ones on her face and whatever skin could be seen through the mesh top bore similar marks. Scrapes marred her bare legs and a large scab covered a gash on her thigh. The untreated injuries were smudged with dirt and grime, and by the way the gash had swollen, it looked infected.

"What do ye think we should do with her?" Connor queried.

Murphy shrugged, then glanced at Rocco. "Way ta uphold the family honor," he said, gesturing down the hallway. "That's her pimp ye got back there."

Rocco spread his arms as if to say _What now?_ "So," he replied, "what are we doing with her? I don't know how you feel about leaving witnesses, but I—"

Panicked screams echoed from the far end of the club; the dancer in the booth had woken up.

Connor and Murphy traded looks, then Connor hoisted the woman's limp body over his shoulder. "At least we can take her ta the ER."

Murphy shrugged. "Still bein' the hero..."

"We're _taking her with us?_" Rocco burst out. "Are you fuckin crazy?"

"Look at it like this, Roc," Murphy told him, picking up the fallen knife and the backpack; whatever had smashed inside the bag had soaked through and smelled strongly of whiskey. "We're not leavin witnesses."

"No, just taking one to get patched up and go to the cops!" But the brothers had already turned towards the exit; "Jesus Christ," Rocco muttered, then he hurried to open the door so Connor could pass.

"How noble of ye, Roc," Connor remarked, carrying the woman outside. "Helpin ta rescue a damsel in distress like a real prince charming."

"Can we just get to the fuckin car?" he urged.

They exited the alley behind the club and made for Vincenzo's Lincoln parked across the street. Rocco climbed into the backseat, then Connor set the woman in the seat beside him. "Maybe we should, I don't know, cuff her or blindfold her or something," he suggested.

"What for?" Connor asked, walking around the car and getting into the driver's seat. He had taken the keys from Vincenzo's body before they left; he took them from his pocket now and started the car. "We're not takin her hostage."

"I would feel a lot better about riding with her," Rocco replied.

"She's out cold and wasted," Murphy pointed out, setting the backpack in the floorboard at the woman's feet and sliding into the car. "If it comes to a fight, I think ye can take her."

Rocco rolled his eyes but fell silent.

* * *

Consciousness was slow in returning; it always was when she was this drunk. Bits and pieces drifted in through her stupor, like the hypnotic lull of a car engine, the sickening lurch in her stomach when it hit a pothole, and the occasional murmur of unfamiliar voices. The whiskey was wearing off and she was no longer numb to the pain of her injuries, and she winced as she shifted in her seat. _I've got Percs in my bag_, she reminded herself, and she opened her eyes.

The backpack was at her feet, but she paused before reaching for it. Something seemed off...she tried to focus, willing her surroundings to make sense. She was in the back of a car, headed God only knew where, with one, two, three strange men.

Panic surged through her body like electricity, eclipsing the pain. "What the fuck is this?" she shouted. "Where are you taking me?"

All three men gave starts of surprise at her outburst. The one sitting next to her had a gun sticking out of his belt; she snatched it and pointed it in his face. "Pull the fuck over," she said, "or I swear to God I'll shoot him right now!"

The three of them started yelling at the same time, the one in the back cursing over and over with eyes trained on the gun, the two in the front trying to talk her down. She cocked the gun and repeated, "Pull over now, or I'm going to shoot him!"

"Put the gun down," the driver urged in a foreign accent, gaze darting between her and the road ahead. "No one's tryin ta hurt ye, just relax—"

"Don't fucking tell me to relax! Why am I in this car?"

"Ease up a bit, now," the man in the passenger seat reasoned. "Just drop the gun, ye don't wanna be doin' anythin stupid—"

"The fuck I don't!"

"Quit fuckin antagonizing the bitch!" the man next to her shouted. "She's about to fucking kill me!"

"Shut the fu—"

The man in the passenger seat made a grab for the gun, wrenching it away from his friend. She tightened her grip and squeezed the trigger; the bullet shot out the driver's side window, the report deafening in the car's interior. There was more yelling and shouting as the man driving slammed on the brakes and swerved towards the curb, the car mounting the sidewalk as it squealed to a stop.

The two in the front got out of the car, the passenger wrestling the gun out of her hand before opening her door. "C'mon," he said. "Outta the car."

She got out, unsteady on her broken heels and ears ringing from the gunshot. She tripped as she climbed out and sprawled onto the pavement, cursing at the impact. He held out a hand to help her to her feet, and her head spun as she stood. Her stomach lurched again and she bowed over to be sick. The man kept a steadying hand on her shoulder as she threw up, careful to stand out of the line of fire, and he asked as she straightened up, "Feelin better?"

"No," she croaked, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She took several deep breaths and looked around at the three men. They stood under a street light, so she was able to see their faces.

She recognized the one she'd had the gun on easily. He came into the club often enough, and it wasn't hard to place the long hair and scruffy beard. The other two were a different story, of similar height and build, one with light hair and the other dark. They both watched her as closely as if she was a wild animal that could either bolt away or attack at any moment. She was sure she didn't know them, but equally sure she had seen them before.

"Have ye lost yer mind?" the light-haired one demanded. There again was that lilting accent, putting her in mind of leprechauns and Lucky Charms, a thought so stupid she could have laughed if she wasn't so pissed off. "Ye could've killed someone doin' a thing like that!"

"Good, that's what I was aiming to do," she shot back.

"Homicidal, then, ain't she?" the dark one asked in the same accent. The question was posed as a joke, but his tone was steady and serious.

"I knew bringing her was a bad idea," the bearded one put in.

"Bringing me?" she repeated. "I didn't ask to come along, did I?"

"Can we just calm ourselves an' talk reasonable here?" the light-haired one asked. He addressed her directly. "Sorry we got off on the wrong foot, but let's start over. I'm Connor, this is my brother Murphy, an' that's our friend—"

"Rocco," she finished for him, dismissing the man with a gesture. "Screw that. Why am I here and what were you doing with me?"

"Bein' good Samaritans," the one called Murphy told her.

"Ye were blacked out an' worse for wear," Connor added. "We were takin ye to a hospital."

"So you were just driving around and saw some random bitch, drunk off her ass with a few bruises, and decided to lend a hand out of the goodness of your hearts?"

They shrugged. "Close enough ta get on with," Connor replied.

She snorted, swaying where she stood, and turned to Rocco. "And what the hell are you doing here?" she asked. "I'd have thought you would be out on some job for that boss you're always going on about."

The brothers laughed. "How 'bout it, Roc?" Murphy asked. "Are ye sure ye only went to that place on business? Looks like she's got yer number, there."

Rocco gave him the finger.

She leaned against the car as another wave of nausea stole over her. Something trickled down her leg; the cut on her thigh was bleeding again.

"Look, let us get ye to a doctor or take ye home, or somethin," Connor wheedled. "I don't feel right leavin a woman on the side of the road."

Murphy nodded, but she shook her head. "Home is a bad idea."

"Then a doctor? We're not meanin ye any harm, so ye can rest easy."

"Is that so?" Her head was pounding; she would have one hell of a hangover to look forward to. She looked back at Connor and Murphy again, finally recognizing them. "Wait a second," she said, "I know you two."

"Aw shit, this again," Rocco muttered.

"You were in the ER that day," she went on, ignoring him. "You tried to stand up for me when that asshole Benny took me out of there."

They nodded again, and she laughed. "And you _still_ think you have to rescue me!"

"I wouldn't call it rescue," Connor replied. "Just tryin ta help. To the hospital, then?"

"You know what, I think I've got it under control." She turned to walk away from the car and staggered wildly between her broken boots and injured leg.

"Ye sure about that?" Murphy asked skeptically.

"Yeah, I'm sure," she replied. She kept at it with a tenacious effort, but after covering only a few yards she was forced to stop. She gave a growl of irritation and said, "Fine, but give me that gun back as a show of your good intentions."

"Good intentions?" Connor repeated. "An' what about yers? We only got five windows left, an' it's fuckin cold out."

"You'll have bigger shit to worry about if you try anything," she promised. "If you want to help me out so bad, then give me some peace of mind while you're at it, you know what I'm saying?"

The brothers shrugged. "Fine, then," Murphy said, moving to hand back the gun.

"Whoa whoa, wait one fuckin minute here," Rocco burst in. "I'm not going nowhere with a psycho fucking bitch with a loaded gun."

"Ye wanna walk?" Murphy asked.

"C'mon, Roc, the gun's only as good as the bullets in it," Connor told him.

"What the fuck do you think I'm saying?"

"Can the bullshit, Rocco," the woman snapped. "I won't shoot you unless you piss me off."

Murphy smirked. "Sounds pretty reasonable ta me."

Rocco threw up his hands and walked around the car. "Fine. Fuck it. And don't blame me if she fuckin kills us all."

"Fine, then, we'll just have ta compromise," Murphy replied. He ejected the magazine from the gun and checked the chamber for any rounds before handing the woman the empty gun. "Ye can still knock some of his teeth out if ye get pissed off," he suggested. "I'm fairly sure that won't kill him."

"Jesus, my _leg_ is fucking killing me," she groaned as she limped back to the car.

"How'd that happen?" he asked.

"It's a long story." Murphy held the door to let her into the backseat, but she reeled back again and moved away to vomit one more time.

"Take it easy on the road, Connor," Murphy instructed as she spat out the last of the bile. "Might need ta pull over later."

"And I'd hate to puke in the car," she agreed.

He smiled and she got into the back. She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes, the pain in her head and leg building. "Has anyone seen a bottle of whiskey anywhere?"

"Sorry ta disappoint," Murphy replied. "Ye had one, but it broke when ye dropped the backpack."

She groaned. "You're right. Never mind."

"Hey, do us a favor," Connor said, starting the car. "Tell us yer name."

"You want the real one, or should I use an alias?"

"The real one."

"Renata. Sorry I almost shot you."

He smiled at her. "Thanks for missin me."

She returned the smile, if a bit faintly, and they drove away.

**8/18 - revised. A salute to the amazing archerlove! :)**


	3. A Fox Hunt

** Time to hear from Agent Smecker. I know this is ridiculously short, but it's necessary. I'm pretty anxious about writing Smecker himself, so if I can get any feedback on how I've done, it's much appreciated.**

** Summary for Di...Smecker is a special agent in the FBI's Organized Crime Task Force. He is called to Boston after the previously mentioned Russians turned up dead in an alley, and it was through his skills that the MacManus brothers were cleared of any wrongdoing. He is now working with Detectives Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly of the Boston police, investigating the recent crime spree that has broken out, with the only victims being criminals. Curious circumstances, indeed.**

Once again, Paul Smecker arrived fashionably late. A smattering of Boston's finest were already swarming the club by the time he got there, clearing out stragglers, running crime scene tape, and sending curious onlookers packing. Most of them already knew him by sight and simply waved him on.

It was a typical sleazy strip joint on the inside, smut trying to disguise itself with the trappings of taste. Hence the fancy carpets in the foyer in dire need of cleaning, the ambient lighting in the hallways, the plush upholstery in the VIP rooms that needed an even more severe cleaning than the carpets, and the erotic murals throughout the club depicting the seven deadly sins, of which lust seemed to be the most popular. Smecker walked past it all without a second glance, heading for the back of the club.

The corridor in the rear of the building was barred to the public, doors leading off to dressing rooms and janitorial closets, and a staircase at the far end of the corridor led to the office on the second floor, open to staff only. It was here that he found Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly waiting for him. He approached them with a condescending smile. "Glad to see Boston PD doesn't take days off, as the bad guys don't seem to, either." He glanced past them to the forensics team down the hallway, combing over the crime scene. "What do we have now?"

"It's a fuckin mess in there," Greenly announced. "Dancer flipped out, started screaming about dead guys and more guys with guns, someone called and we had cars down here in five minutes."

"What's the body count?"

"Three."

"And you're sure about that this time?"

"Just three," Dolly assured him. "All with pennies over the eyes, just like the hotel."

"Interesting." Smecker glanced down the corridor to the door at the opposite end. "Is that the only exit from back here?"

"It is," Duffy answered; he seemed to have left the novelty ties at home this time. "The only other exits are through the main club, and no one reports seeing anyone suspicious hanging around or passing through. They got in, got out, no witnesses."

"What about the dancer who found the bodies?"

"Already got her statement," Dolly replied. "She's still here if you want to talk to her."

"In a minute." Smecker inspected the hallway near the door, passing over the amber-colored stain on the carpet and pausing at a blood smear on the wall. It was only a brushing and long since dried...there was no telling how old it was, but he preferred to be thorough. "Get forensics over here and get a sample of this," he told the detectives. "Run it through the system and see if we get any hits. And find out what the hell this is on the rug. If there's a lead to be found around here, I want it hounded to its den." He looked up and down the hallway, looking past his colleagues for something likely. "Think of it as a fox hunt, gentlemen. Now let's see if we can pick up a scent. Are there any surveillance cameras back here?"

"Not a single one," Duffy replied. "No security equipment at all in the whole place apart from the bouncers."

"Not surprising. There's usually too much going on under the table in these places. And you can't have a man watching the monitors whacking off to the dancers when he's supposed to be keeping an eye on the customers, can you?"

His airy tone conveyed his contempt at the whole idea and the detectives began to smile before they could stop themselves, going serious again when Smecker turned back to them. "Where does that exit lead?"

"Back alley that leads out onto the street," Greenly answered. "We looked it over when we got here, but didn't see anything."

Smecker disregarded the last bit of information and went out to the alley. The light was barely adequate, and the flashing blue from the squad cars on the street didn't help much. He borrowed a flashlight from one of the uniforms and clicked it on, searching the alley. He passed the beam over the fire escape and the dumpster, then focused on the ground. A manhole cover shifted beneath his feet as he prowled back and forth, sweeping the light over the pavement. They had to have left some trace...

The detectives stood back as he combed over the alley, then turned off the flashlight with a sigh. Nothing.

"Find anything?" Greenly asked.

"The same thing you did, shocking as that is," he replied. "I want this alley closed off. No one comes through here until I go over it in daylight, understood?" God knew the last thing he needed was some frigging bum or junkie meandering through and tampering with the scene. He made for the door and they stood aside to let him in; one of the forensics team was getting a sample of the blood on the wall. "Be sure and dust for prints," he added. "You don't need me to tell you how to do your job, but pay close attention to this door."

"Is it still a hunt?" Dolly asked as they headed down the hallway towards the crime scene.

"It's always a hunt," Smecker told him. "The hunt never stops." Hit men, crooks, mobsters...the world was full of evil men. And for men like Paul Smecker, the hunt for those assholes was a lifelong commitment.

**8/19 - revised. Three cheers for archerlove!**


	4. Emergency Room Revisited

**Back to the boys. Interesting fact: When they're at the Boston precinct telling Smecker what happened with the Russians, I had always assumed the language they were using between themselves was meant to be Gaelic. But upon reading the script, it seems T. Duff has declared it to be Latin... Go figure.**

The emergency room was almost as empty as it had been the morning after St. Patty's. Renata sat filling out the paperwork, glancing up at her companions from time to time. "You know, you don't have to stick around," she informed them. "I can handle it from here, thanks."

Murphy shrugged and Connor spoke. "In case ye can't, we'll wait."

"Suit yourselves." She finished with the form, stuck the pen in the jaw of the clipboard, and braced herself to stand. Murphy took the clipboard from her and rose to take it to the receptionist. "Thanks," she said.

"Don't mention it," he replied, reading the name on the form, "Ingrid Bergman."

She smirked and settled back into her chair with a sigh, then a slight frown crossed her face. "Hold up," she said, "you guys were in the club, weren't you? I was coming in the back door and you were there."

Rocco gave Connor a sharp look, but Connor remained passive. "Are ye always lookin for someone ta kill when ye been drinkin?" he replied.

She raised her brow quizzically. "Did I say that?" she asked

"Sure, an' Roc about pissed himself when ye pulled the knife."

"No, that was when she pulled my own fuckin gun on me," Rocco corrected.

Renata shrugged. "You shouldn't have kidnapped me, then, should you?"

"Kidnap, now that's a strong word..." Connor said.

"And I would have had no problem shooting any of you," she went on. "I was well within my rights, anyone would have called it self-defense."

"Aye," Murphy agreed, returning to his seat and joining the conversation. "Maybe we shoulda cuffed and blinfolded her, Roc, like ye suggested."

Renata's eyes widened and she looked at Rocco in disbelief. "I should have shot your ass after all!"

He shook his head. "I didn't feel like taking chances," he said, "and I take no responsibility for what happened."

"Yeah, I'll bet you don't."

"How do ye know our man Roc?" Connor queried. "He sure knew you fast enough."

"He says he's in that place on the job and expects us ta believe him," Murphy added.

"What, this guy?" Renata demanded, pointing at him. "Hell, this motherfucker's always in there talking up the girls like he's a big time mob boss! He knows everyone on the Friday night shift by name!"

Connor and Murphy shared grins of triumph and Rocco chose diffidence as his defense. "I'm a man that appreciates a nice rack the way another man might appreciate a nice painting-"

"Depends on how many other men start feelin up the art gallery," Connor interrupted wryly.

"And if I choose to spend my time admiring a variety of nice paintings," he went on, "that's my deal, isn't it?"

"Sure, Roc. Whatever ye say."

"Now, about you two," Renata said, turning to the brothers, "I know I'm plastered, but I don't think you're from around here."

"Nah," Connor confirmed. "Not by a longshot."

"I'm going to guess you're Irish."

"Sure."

"No kidding! My dad was Irish! Well, maybe _he_ wasn't, he was from Missouri, but it's still in the genes. Did the whole family come over here, or just you two?"

"Just us," Murphy replied. "The rest a the clan's back home."

She bobbed her head in acknowledgment; in her state of inebriation, the room seemed to swim with the movement. "Well, just so you know, that accent is sexy as fuck," she said.

Connor smiled. "So we've heard."

A uniformed nurse appeared at the far end of the hallway. "Ingrid Bergman," she called.

"There's my cue," Renata remarked, stretching cat-like in her chair and grimacing at the pain. She slowly got to her feet and picked up her backpack, shaking her head at the damp stain before hobbling toward the nurse in her uneven boots.

Rocco turned to the brothers once she was gone. "So what do you think?" he asked. "You think she'll go to the cops?"

"Nah," Connor replied. "She doesn't know anythin, hardly even remembers what she does know."

"What if it hits the news, like Copley Plaza?" Murphy asked. "She might start thinkin again about what she remembers."

"An' she still won't know anythin," Connor repeated. "Nothin ta worry about."

Murphy nodded, satisfied, and after a moment Rocco shrugged.

The minutes dragged by, the sounds of the hospital filtering into the otherwise silent room. A few more ill and injured came in, including a man in a drugged stupor wearing handcuffs, bleeding from a broken nose and escorted by two police officers.

Rocco glanced at the trio and said, "Do you think the cops are down there yet?"

The brothers nodded.

"Do you think they'll connect it to the hotel or the deli?"

"The hotel for sure," Connor said, "but maybe not the deli."

"But wait'll it gets back ta Pappa Joe," Murphy told him. "Ye'll have him scared shitless, Roc, renegade assassin that ye are."

Rocco smiled. "Should have moved me up the ladder years ago, fuckin asshole." He looked around the ER again and asked, "What are we still doing here? We got nothing to worry about, so let's get the fuck out of here."

Connor shrugged. "I dunno...ye think we should tell her that her man's done for?" he asked Murphy.

"She won't miss him, sure as hell," Murphy said.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Rocco demanded, leaning in close and lowering his voice. "You don't even know that _was_ her man!"

"She was goin' in there ta get someone," Connor told him. "Who else do ye think it coulda been?"

"You still don't gotta say anything! Tell her that and she goes from knowing nothing to knowing a whole fuckin lot!"

"She's not gonna rat us out, Roc. Ye didn't see this guy, we did her a favor-"

"Great! Keep telling yourself that, and when she finds out we killed him-"

"Say what? You killed someone?"

The three of them snapped to attention. Renata had returned, gazing from one to the next and glaring suspiciously through eyes still foggy with liquor. "Did I hear that right?" she asked.

"Nice one, Roc," Murphy said.

"You're the ones that wanted to tell her," Rocco shot back.

"Is this something I even _want_ to know?" she demanded.

They remained in a standoff, the men sitting and Renata standing, each staring at the other and sizing each other up. It was finally Connor who spoke first. "Look, this isn't the place for this shit, so why don't we all go outside an' have a chat?"

"Why would I want to?" she asked. Her gray eyes were as cold and unyielding as stone as she started at Connor and he stared right back. "After what I just walked in on-"

"It's pretty fuckin stupid ta walk inta the middle of a conversation an' start makin assumptions, not ta mention rude. Didn't yer ma teach ye any manners?"

"There's irony," she said. "_I_ woke up in _your_ car, remember?"

Murphy leaned closer to his brother and asked in Latin, _"You're thinking we should tell her?"_

"_Might have_ _to_,_ or_ _she_ will _go to the co_ps," Connor whispered back. "_She's_ _holding something back t__oo, whatever she says._"

"Hey," Renata cut in sharply, "I could go over there right now and tell them something is up with you three," she gestured with her thumb to the two officers.

"That's called hearsay, sweetheart," Murphy told her, reverting back to English. "Good luck with that."

"I might take my chances."

"I knew it," Rocco burst out. "I fuckin _ knew _ this was a bad idea."

"Shut it, Roc," Connor cut him off. He looked back at Renata. "Then how 'bout these chances," he said. "A woman that's had too much ta drink goes 'round accusin people a things she doesn't even know really happened, no proof or information she can give anyone, knowin nothin but a few names..." He drifted off, letting his point sink in.

Renata continued to stare but her mind was working, analyzing Connor's statement and weighing every potential outcome. He had a point; it was their word against hers, and she didn't exactly look like a reliable witness. If only she wasn't so damn drunk-a cop was more likely to arrest _her_ for public intoxication before he even gave the three men a thought.

"Is it makin any sense?" Connor prompted.

She ignored the question. "Why would I go anywhere to talk? You already kidnapped me once."

"An' drove ye ta get checked out," he replied. "Doesn't sound like we had designs on ye, does it?"

"This could all be another misunderstanding," Murphy added, joining his brother's cause. "Why not clear the air a bit?"

"Yeah, we might find no one has anything on anyone," Rocco offered, "so no one needs to say anything to anyone and we can all just keep our mouths shut."

Murphy elbowed him.

Renata gave them a final look of appraisal, then nodded. "All right."

They stood outside the hospital several minutes later, shivering in the harsh night air. Renata rummaged in her backpack and brought out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes; every last one was soaked through with spilled whiskey. She threw them into the nearest trash can with a huff of irritation, and Connor offered one of his own before taking one for himself. She watched him as he lit up and took a drag, then she followed suit. "Thanks."

He exhaled with a sigh. "Let's just cut past the bullshit, right? We need ta know we can trust you."

That made her laugh. "_You_ need to trust _me?_"

"Damn right we do," Murphy told her, lighting his own cigarette. "So how's a show of honesty sound?"

"Ye went ta that club lookin for someone," Connor said. "Ye had a knife, ye meant ta use it, an' we all know it."

She was drunk enough to answer truthfully. "Yeah, I did," she replied. "Are you going to turn me in?"

"We've got as much on you as ye got on us."

"Which is to say, neither of us has jack shit."

"Exactly."

She nodded and flicked ash off the end of her cigarette. "So how about some honesty from you guys?" she asked. "Sound fair?"

Connor glanced at Murphy and Rocco. "Do ye think we can trust her?"

Murphy looked her up and down and nodded. "I think we can. Roc?"

Rocco shrugged it off. "Fuck it, I'm outvoted anyway."

Renata turned to Connor. "So, who did you kill?"

"The same guy ye were goin' for."

She paused, then said, "What?"

"It was pure luck we found him, but we got him."

"Got _ who? _"

Connor and Murphy traded looks of puzzlement before Connor went on, "The pimp."

"What pimp?"

"_Your_ pimp."

"What the hell are you talking about?" she asked.

"The guy who was in the ER after St. Patty's," Murphy told her.

"That was Benny," Renata replied, as if that explained everything. "He's a pimp, but he sure as fuck ain't _my_ pimp. Jesus Christ, boys, I'm not a hooker."

"You're not?" Rocco interjected.

She rolled her eyes. "No need to sound so disappointed."

"I'm not disappointed, I just thought-"

"The point is," Connor cut him off, "he's dead. We got him."

She looked from one man to the next, as if searching their faces for lies. "You really killed him?"

"Well, Roc did," Murphy replied, and Rocco gave a mock salute.

"That's great," Renata said, and the brothers began to smile before she added, "but he's not who I was there for."

The smiles vanished.

Renata stifled a yawn and took another long pull from her cigarette. The bruises on her face stood out stark and unforgiving in the fluorescent light at the hospital's entrance. A bandage now covered the gash on her leg, but the attempt to conceal the injury only made it more obvious. "How's the leg?" Murphy inquired.

"Another minute and they might have had to amputate," she told him, then she grinned to show she was joking. "Not too bad," she went on. "Eight stitches, and luckily no infection."

"How'd ye get like this?" Connor asked.

She sighed and finished the cigarette, avoiding the question. "It's a long story."

"And if you weren't after the guy we killed," Rocco asked, "who _were_ you looking for?"

She tossed the cigarette butt away and exhaled a thin stream of smoke and vapor into the cold air, answering, "The piece of shit that did this to me." She hitched her backpack farther up on her shoulder and said, "Well, guys, it's been weird. Thanks for the lift and all, but I ought to head out."

"Is there anywhere we can drive ye to?" Connor offered. "Ma'd kill us if she knew we left a lady standin on the fuckin sidewalk. I know ye said home is a bad idea, but..."

"Oh, how chivalrous, but no. I'll probably just find a motel or something."

"Or somethin?" Murphy repeated. "Ye don't sound too sure a yerself, Ingrid Bergman."

She gave a wry smile. "Renata Malone," she said, holding out her hand. "How's it going?"

"Murphy MacManus," he replied, shaking her hand, "and I'll agree with ye on the weird part."

"Hm." She turned to Connor and shook his hand as well. "Connor MacManus, I presume."

"Aye."

She reached Rocco last. "And I guess I kinda feel bad about trying to kill you," she said.

"Hell, everyone's trying to kill me lately," he told her.

She gave a wolfish grin and turned away, weaving slightly as she walked.

"What, ye mean ye're not tellin us about the piece a shit?" Connor asked after her.

"Like I said, it's a long story," she called over her shoulder. "Do yourselves a favor, and stay out of it."

"Well, hang on, maybe we can help ye," Murphy offered.

She laughed. "What, you mean you're gonna whack the guy for me?"

"If he deserves it, why the hell not?"

Connor gave him a sharp nudge with his elbow to quiet him.

She stopped in her tracks and turned, looking from one brother to the other. "You're serious?" she asked.

They traded glances, then Connor shrugged and they nodded. She looked disbelieving, eyes wide and stunned. "Jesus Christ," she said, "who the fuck are you people?" They didn't answer and she chewed her bottom lip and folded her arms, tapping her foot against the sidewalk and deep in thought. The three men stood waiting, smoking another cigarette and watching her oscillate on the pavement. She finally returned to them and said, "I think read about you guys in the paper. You killed those mobsters on the south side."

"Self-defense," Connor told her, flicking away his cigarette.

"That's what the press said."

"That's the truth," Murphy told her.

She raised her hands in a placating gesture. "No one's arguing that," she said. "I'm just trying to decide what I should do here. You would really kill this guy?"

"Does he deserve it?" Connor asked.

She gestured to her bruised face. "You see this?" she asked. "This is a fucking _preview._ I was lucky to get out with less than what this guy usually dishes out. I mean it, you don't want to get mixed up in this shit."

"An' ye think ye'll have better luck next time?" Connor asked. "Ye're out of it now, why not stay that way?"

She shook her head. "Can't do that," she replied. "It's something I gotta do."

Connor and Murphy looked long and hard at each other, weighing the options for a moment, then Murphy said, "We understand doin what ye gotta do, but if ye gotta do it, then... I mean, look at ye. Ye're a fuckin mess."

"Wow, are you always so smooth with the ladies?"

"Just fuckin think about it," Connor told her. "Ye're this bad off now, what if shit goes bad again, while ye're doin what ye gotta do?"

She heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm serious, this is some fucked up shit I'm in. You don't want to get involved if you don't have to."

"Actually, we kinda do. It's part a the whole good Samaritan thing."

A look of incredulity spread across her face and she shook her head. "You guys are something else."

"No shit," Rocco agreed. "You should have seen Copley Plaza."

"All right, Roc, that's enough," Connor told him.

"Hang on, wait a second," she said, looking as though something had just occurred to her. "MacManus, right? That's what you said?"

"Aye," Murphy replied.

Her jaw dropped. "Oh my God!" she burst out. "I _knew_ I recognized you from somewhere! We used to be neighbors!" Connor and Murphy looked confused, so she went on, "The Reids, that couple on the third floor, they're relatives of my ex-boyfriend! We stayed with them for about a month and a half around...four years ago?" They still looked blank and she asked, "You don't remember?"

"Not off the top of our heads," Connor replied. "Not sayin ye're wrong, but..."

"Hate to break up the reunion here," Rocco cut in, "but we got the fuckin cops back here and I'd rather get the fuck off the street-"

"Yeah, this _does_ look shady," Renata agreed, "three guys and a girl blowing smoke outside." She eyed the old cigarette butts littering the curb and landscaping where others before them had stood in their place smoking. "I'm sure nobody ever did that before."

"Nah, wait," Murphy said, "I think I remember passin ye a couple a times in the building...ye were drunk a lot, weren't ye?"

She nodded. "That sounds about right. So... This might be a little off the wall, all things considered, but do you mind doing me a favor? Can I crash at your place tonight? I mean, we're not _total_ strangers, after all."

"Strange enough for me," Rocco grumbled. "Can we just go?"

Murphy looked to Connor. "What do ye think? For a neighbor?"

He shrugged. "What the fuck. It's just one night."

"Right, then. Let's get out of here."

They headed across the parking lot to the car, and Renata hesitated again before climbing into the back with Rocco. "We sort of know each other, but this isn't a gang bang, is it?" she asked.

"If it was," Murphy replied, "ye _would_ have woken up cuffed and blindfolded."

She pondered his answer, then nodded. "Good point."

They drove to a decrepit brick building in Southie, and Rocco took the car from there and drove away. Renata looked up at the building and said, "Just as I remember it."

"Rent's gone up a bit," Murphy remarked.

"It still better be cheap in a place like this," she replied as they went inside. They took the elevator to the fifth floor and she cast a critical look around the shabby studio apartment as they entered. "Dirt cheap," she amended.

"It's got a roof and running water," Connor said, taking off his coat and holster and hanging his rosary by the door. "That's all ye need, really."

"Hm." Her eyes traveled over the sparse accomodations, from the scratch-and-dent appliances and broken down couch to the table littered with ash trays and beer cans and the mattress sets laying on bare floor, to the far corner of the room, landing on exposed plumbing. "You don't even have a fucking toilet!"

"It's in the mail," Murphy told her. "Should be here next week."

She sighed. "Well, whatever works for you." She set her backpack down on the floor and the broken bottle inside rattled slightly. She went to the couch and took off her boots, wiggling her cramped toes before stretching out, using her coat as a blanket and tucking her arm under her head for a pillow.

Connor and Murphy watched her for a moment like an exhibit at a museum, and Connor offered, "Ye know, ye could take one a the beds..."

"Nope," she replied, closing her eyes. "I'm down for the night. It's too late to move." She was quiet for a moment, then opened her eyes again and said, "Thanks again for the ride, and all the other shit."

He shrugged and looked back at his brother. One glance, and he knew they were both second-guessing this arrangement. It was one thing to have driven her to the hospital, but maybe another to bring her back home. It was nothing like the certainty of their revelation in the Boston PD holding cell; they both shared an uneasy feeling that in doing so small a favor for this woman they barely remembered, they had set some new game in motion. She was an upset of the natural order, one that would be harder to adjust to. Odd that after having killed over a dozen men in less than a week with faith, nerves, and morals intact, it was a drunk stripper that rocked the boat.

Murphy leaned closer to Connor and lowered his voice. "Just one night?"

Connor nodded. "We'll see if we can do this job for her. If not, she's gone."

Murphy fell silent and them each a beer, and they both tried to ignore the woman asleep on the couch. After a time they had almost convinced themselves nothing was out of the ordinary...but each caught the other sneaking glances at her, and they kept quiet so as not to disturb her.

**8/24 - revised. Archerlove was here...**


	5. Shakedown At the Sin Bin

**I hope everyone had a better Valentine's Day than I did; I almost chopped my finger off at work. No worries, it finally stopped bleeding, and "almost" doesn't count, am I right?**

**While writing the first draft, the boys were content to sit back and behave themselves while I had my hands full with Smecker and Renata. That went out the window when I started posting and they started demanding more of little ole me. What this means is, coming chapters are going to get a lot more...interesting. ;)**

**About this chapter: I don't usually write flashbacks, but I couldn't do this any othet way and if it's not as smooth as it ought to be, forgive me. And for a little background look at my vision of the Sin Bin, check out "Hotel California" by the Eagles. Enjoy!**

Renata lit a cigarette and heaved a sigh, rolling her head back and forth on her shoulders. She had woken up complaining of her night spent on the couch, moving gingerly as she stretched her sore limbs, then she reached for her backpack, removing a pill from a prescription bottle and swallowing it. "Christ, I'm sore in places I didn't even know I had," she said. "Can I bum a smoke?"

Murphy handed her a pack of Marlboros. He and Connor sat side by side opposite her at the table, waiting for her to speak.

She sat smoking for a moment, then straightened up. "All right," she said, "what do you want to know?"

"Who is this guy," Connor replied, "an' what did he do."

Renata nodded. "That's a long story, and I'll have to tell it all."

"Fine."

She drew her backpack closer, fiddling with one of the zippers. "First thing you need to know," she said, "there is no such thing as a legitimate strip club, at least so far as I know. It's pretty much safe to assume every last one of them is corrupt. Take the Sin Bin; it looks trashy enough to start with, but it's a fucking marketplace of some really nasty shit. Drugs, sex, weapons, you want it and you got it."

"Even the dancers?" Murphy asked.

She laughed with little humor. "Especially the dancers! The ones selling certain commodities get a cut of the profit, and the others are whores reporting back to the owner's pimp buddy. You know, the one you killed."

"So, what're ye sellin?" Connor asked.

"Well, I wasn't lying when I said I'm not a hooker." She set her backpack at her feet, unzipped it, and glanced up at the brothers. "Can I trust you not to narc on me?" she said.

They nodded and she took a deep breath as she reached inside the bag. She rummaged through the contents, careful to avoid the broken glass, and drew out several prescription bottles. "Valium," she announced, setting a bottle on the couch, "Percocet," another bottle, "and a little ecstasy." She tossed a single bottle devoid of a label with the others and continued. "Marcus, the owner, he gets these in bulk and I sell them by the pill. A bottle of, say, fifty for less than ten bucks, then turn around and sell them for nine or ten a pop, you do the math. And the ex goes for higher."

"So ye're a dealer," Connor said.

She shrugged, looking defensive. "I needed the money. It was a matter of necessity, not choice."

"An' ye had no other options? I'm sure ye coulda made another career choice."

"Said the guy who killed one man and is offering to do another," she replied bluntly. "I was out on my ass with no other options. I could sell drugs or pussy, and a few pills to keep a roof over my head and food in the fridge seemed like the better deal. It's not like anyone grows up _wanting_ to get involved in this kind of thing, but shit happens."

" Aye, ye were in a jam an' had ta think a somethin," Murphy agreed, urging her to continue her story. "What went wrong?"

"You mean how did I end up sneaking in the back door with a knife? I tried to beat the system. I was charging more money per pill and pocketing the extra. I was giving a dance for a guy on St. Patrick's Day when he went crazy and started pounding on me; that's how I was in the emergency room that day. That's when Marcus figured out what I was up to." She flicked ash off the cigarette-

* * *

_Three days earlier..._

Marcus was smoking a cigar by the window when she got into the office. Reg, the manager of the Sin Bin and overseer of pharmaceutical sales stood at one end of the room toying with a putting machine. Benny, that glorified whoremaster, steered her to stand in front of the desk before releasing the grip he had on her arm and going to sit in the swivel chair. He had brought her straight to the club after dragging her out of the emergency room, on Marcus's order no doubt, which could only mean trouble.

Renata clutched her purse and gazed at the three men. Marcus continued to stare out the window at the alley behind the club; average height, thinning blond hair neatly combed, immaculate suit with a perfectly arranged neck tie...he might have been an ordinary businessman, but then he turned and looked her in the eye and the illusion was gone. She had known the instant she first met that stare that this wasn't a man to cross. The calculation and cunning behind those dark eyes was a wall of black ice that intimidated the weak and even put the strong-willed on edge. Above board or below the table, he was an entrepreneur with a ruthless track record of obliterating every threat and nuisance.

"Renata," he said, a metallic note in his voice that grated on the nerves and always made her irritable, "good to have you back with us after your incident."

She didn't reply, but looked down at Benny. An associate of Marcus's in the market of pleasure, he ran a prostitution ring with a few of his girls dancing in the club. He was best described as a weasel of a human being with a little man complex; she was taller than him when she was in heels, and she was only five foot seven. He compensated for his stature with cockiness and swagger, always trying to convince those around him that he was a player with his shiny suits, gold chains, and the diamond ring on his right hand. He backhanded one of the girls he had charge of with that hand once, and she still had the scar from that ring. The morning he took Renata from the hospital was the most she'd had to do with him, but it was more than enough for her. He looked up at her with such an oily smile she looked away again in disgust.

"Now, I know how eager you must be to get home and relax, and I've got to say, you've looked better," Marcus went on.

_Fuck you_, she thought.

"But I've got a few matters that need clearing up first. Do you think you can help me with that?"

She shrugged, trying to seem more relaxed than she was. "I can try," she replied. "What's the problem?"

Off at the other side of the room, Reg laughed to himself. She didn't bother looking at him. He was the last person on earth she wanted to see, and it was a sick joke that she was stuck with him nearly every night. She could feel his eyes on her the moment she walked in the door, when she was onstage, with a customer, right up until she left the club. Her skin crawled as she stood in the office with him, knowing what he was thinking about when he stared at her the way he did, and she wrapped her coat more tightly around herself as if it would shield her from his gaze.

"I've heard some interesting stories since last night," Marcus told her. Ash fell from the end of his cigar and landed on the carpet, but he paid it no attention. "The first one came from the gentleman who assaulted you. Can you guess what he had to say?"

She shook her head, trying to remain calm and cool. Fear would numb her mind and choke out thought if she let it, and she couldn't afford to panic and give herself away now.

"He said he's a regular customer of yours; he comes in a few nights a week and gets a dance and a hit. But he went to another girl last week for the same shit, and she gave him the same product at a different rate. We checked with her, and she's charging the rate we agreed on. Your friend tells us he's been paying you more, but we can't account for any of this extra money."

_Curtis, you miserable piece of shit_...After she'd finished his lap dance, he confronted her about her pricing. Trish didn't charge half as much, he complained, and he wanted to start paying the smaller rate or he would go to her boss. Renata balked and he lost his temper. It took two bouncers to get him off her and while they were throwing him out, she snuck off to the hospital, half wondering if she should pack up and run while she had the chance, before Curtis could start running his mouth. But then Benny caught up with her, and it was too late.

"Now, I didn't want to jump to conclusions," Marcus went on, "so we asked more of your regulars, and it's the damnedest thing, but they all had the same story. They all pay the same amount, and it's considerably higher than the rates we agreed on for you. We crunched the numbers, and you're shown as pulling in less than what we've projected, based on this special rate of yours. So you see where we've gotten confused, Renata. Something doesn't add up here. There's an awful lot of money missing, and we have a good idea where it went."

She remained still and silent, certain that one word or movement would betray her. The click and shuffle of Reg's putting machine as he sent the ball into it and it ejected again crowded her head and tore at her nerves, making her jumpier than she already was. Marcus stepped towards her and it took all her self-control not to turn and flee.

"Renata," he said, raising his hand and combing his fingers through her hair, "I thought we were friends. I considered you trustworthy over all the other bitches on my staff, and I've trusted you with secrets others have died protecting. We were _partners_." He tightened his grip on her hair and held her gaze locked with his, ice boring into stone. "And then you betray me like this."

She saw him signal to Reg, who moved closer and cracked the putter across the backs of her knees. She let out a cry at the explosion of pain and dropped to the floor, Marcus still maintaining his hold on her. "I ought to kill you here and now, but I want my money out of you first, so I'll tell you what's going to happen next. You're going to stay here with your friend Reg, and Benny and I are going to your apartment to find what you've stolen. And you'd better hope we find it, because I'll get it out of you one way or another, and you won't like the alternative." He glanced over at Reg and said, "I want her in one piece when I get back. Other than that, she's all yours."

He released her and she finally looked at Reg, over six feet tall and built like a mountain, all muscle and bone with a taste for blood. Whenever Marcus needed someone punished, he put Reg on the job, and the results were brutal. There was malice in those eyes to be allowed to lay hands at last on this prize he coveted most, and her fear finally consumed her.

"We'll leave you to it," Marcus said, and he and Benny headed for the door, Benny with his oily smile still in place.

"No!" she burst out. "Marcus, wait-"

Reg dealt her another blow with the putter across her shoulders, knocking her face-first to the floor. He kicked her in the stomach, cutting off her scream as the air was forced from her lungs. "This is going to be fun, Renata," he said, his voice rumbling like thunder in the office. He tossed the putter aside, grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet, leering down at her. She spent her nights onstage, twirling around a pole often in nothing but skin, but she had never felt so exposed. Mesh and wool didn't shield her from those eyes...plate armor wouldn't shield her. "Oh yeah," he breathed, "this is going to be so much fun."

She struggled to break his grip and he punched her again, and from there it was one hit after another as he knocked her around the office like a rag doll. He slammed her into furniture and threw her against the walls, and no matter how she tried to defend herself, he came at her more relentless than ever. Blow after blow, pain on top of pain...Curtis had worked her over good enough to start with, but he was nowhere as vicious as this. Only when she was sure one more blow would kill her did he seize a fistful of her hair and fling her across the desk, standing behind her and kicking her legs apart. He leaned over her, getting close to her ear, and whispered, "I've wanted to fuck you since you first started working here."

The words passed over her, but then she felt his hand under her skirt and something snapped. Fear and rage exploded in a surge of adrenaline, and she forgot the pain of the beating as every instinct bowed to one command: _fight back_.

She jammed her elbow as hard as she could into his stomach; at her angle it wasn't enough to cause any damage, but it caught Reg off guard and he backed away from her, enough for her to stand again. She snatched a glass paperweight off the desk and spun around, swinging at his head, but he blocked her arm and pushed her back onto the desk, his grin back in place. "I was hoping you'd give me trouble."

She didn't answer, twisting her head around in search of a new weapon. Her eyes fell on a letter opener laying harmless on a stack of papers; she grabbed it and stabbed.

The blade sank into the flesh where neck and shoulder met, and it sank deep. Reg screamed in pain and staggered back, and she kicked him in the crotch, sending him sprawling on the floor as blood ran from his neck.

The adrenaline held off the worst of the pain while the crisis was still upon her, but it wouldn't last. She had to get away. She left him on the floor; _He'll get his one day_, she vowed; then she snatched up her purse where she'd dropped it when he first hit her and hurried to the window. Casting glances back at Reg on the floor and the office door, she forced the window open and crawled through it to the fire escape. The cold steel of the rails and the rungs of the ladders bit into her hands and tempered the fire in her blood, forcing her to dredge up the last of her desperate energy. Almost there, almost there-

Her boots slipped and she fell off the ladder, tumbling through the air before landing hard on the edge of the dumpster behind the club and falling inside. She heard doors slam through the walls and she dug down into the garbage, hiding underneath the trash and listening. There were footsteps outside as Reg staggered outside and searched the alley, then silence. She waited a few more minutes to be safe, pressing her palm to her leg where she had cut it when striking the dumpster, then she crawled out onto the pavement. One heel snapped off her boots as she landed and she staggered, the adrenaline ebbing away and leaving her exhausted and in pain once more. Fighting to stay on her feet, she crept out of the alley and disappeared.

* * *

Connor and Murphy sat quietly as Renata finished her story and another cigarette. Her voice remained steady and impassive in the telling, but her hands shook relating the fight with Reg and though she paused for a moment at the end, it seemed something in her was still moving, intent on battle.

"I made it back to my apartment, grabbed some shit, and got the hell out," she said. "They had already looted it by the time I got there, but I wasn't going to stick around in case they came back. That was about..." she counted on her fingers, "three or four days ago."

"Did they find the money?" Connor asked.

"Some of it. They tore open my mattress and found what I'd stashed in there, but they missed all the other hiding places. I've still got most of it."

"An' how much is that?"

"About twenty grand."

The brothers froze in amazement, both of them looking down at the backpack at her feet. She followed their eyes and smiled. "It's not in there. I kept some for pocket money and found a new hiding place for the rest. I sure as hell wasn't about to carry all of it around with me."

"Why didn't ye get outta there before now?" Murphy asked. "Ye were bound ta get caught eventually, so why risk it?"

She shrugged, looking away. "It was dangerous," she agreed, "but you have no idea how hard it is to get out of that business once you're in it. I wanted to, believe me, and as soon as I got the nerve I planned to split. Then the thing with Curtis happened and it went to shit." She took out a third cigarette and held out the pack. "Anyone else interested?"

"Ye mean ye're offerin' me my own shit?" Murphy questioned.

She looked from him to the pack of cigarettes and comprehension struck her. "Oh! Right, and I'm just sitting here burning through them-"

"Nah, ye're fine," he replied, taking two cigs and handing one to Connor. "Next round's on you."

"Fair enough."

The three of them lit up and Connor asked, "So how did ye come ta be workin' there anyway?"

"Another long story," Renata said. "The short version is I came here with a dumb ass boyfriend that left me high, dry and broke. I was living in a shelter and couldn't find work anywhere else." She yawned and stretched, lifting her arms over her head and arching her back. As far as looks went, she was merely ordinary, yet there was something in her movements that drew the eye, a sensuousness that was difficult to ignore; she was beautiful when she moved. Connor and Murphy watched her intently-it would be hard not to even if she wasn't the current anomaly. The mesh top didn't conceal much, not the black bra beneath nor the bruises that covered her skin. Her curves and her injuries were in conflict with each other. She inspired desire and empathy all at once.

There was something curious at work as the brothers looked at her, like a bond being made or a chain being forged. Though she didn't look anything extraordinary, her aura was magnetic; Connor and Murphy found themselves staring at her with no clear idea why. Her story could have suspended belief, but her bruises testified to her honesty, and it was as though in taking her from the club, they had assumed responsibility for her, this strange woman circumstance had set in their path so many times already.

She noticed their scrutiny and cocked an eyebrow. "Eyes back in your heads, boys," she said, lowering her arms and taking a pull from her cigarette. "Let's get back to business, shall we, since you're so eager to be good Samaritans? What else do you think you need to know?"

"How do ye even know yer man's still alive?" Connor asked. "If ye stabbed him..."

She tilted her head to the side and indicated a place on the top of her shoulder just at the base of her neck. "Not fatal," she replied. "He came out looking for me, remember? That's when I got the idea to go back and finish him. I was well into the whiskey by then and it seemed like a good plan." She rolled her eyes in irritation at her own folly. "You know, much as I hate to admit it, it's probably a good thing you abducted me when you did...the state I was in, he would have fucked me after all and probably killed me when he was done."

"Ye weren't much good for anything when we saw ye," Murphy agreed. "The knife was a bit of a surprise, though."

"An' Roc's gun in the car," Connor added.

She smiled and gave her cigarette a flick, scattering ash onto her backpack. "I've always been good at surprises." She ruffled her hair and scratched her scalp. "Ugh, shit, I'm filthy," she groaned. "Can I use your shower?"

"If ye don't mind playin Russian roulette with the hot water," Murphy replied.

She nodded and cast a critical eye across the room where the showers were open to the rest of the apartment, then shook her head and made a tsking noise with her tongue against her teeth. "Yeah, that's not going to work," she said. "You guys are going to have to step out and give me a minute."

"What?" Murphy said, taken aback.

"Well, I can't have you in here to watch," she replied, as if it was common sense. "Show some respect for my girlish modesty, please?"

Connor nudged his brother and got to his feet. "C'mon, Murph," he said. "Ye know what Ma'd say."

**8/26 - revised. Thanks again to archerlove!**


	6. Personal

**First of all, many thanks to the people who have reviewed so far. It's good motivation! And thanks also to you folks following this. I hope I can make it worth your while.**

**May I present my longest chapter thus far? The plot's going to start getting serious, so pay close attention. It turns out Renata will have things her way no matter what, and while the boys are still mostly business, they're starting to act up on me...I'm still not sure about certain parts of this chapter, so any helpful critiques are welcome.**

**One more note: I named the gun dealer to make it easier for myself. And while Jameson seems to be the most popular choice for the boys' favorite booze, I did a little snooping and opted for something else. Which led to more snooping. Enjoy, and leave me some love before you go! :)**

"Be polite ta guests but run yer own house," Murphy remarked. "That's what Ma'd say."

He and Connor stood out in the hallway, leaning against the wall with arms folded. The sound of running water issued from inside the loft, along with infrequent, tuneless whistling. Connor laughed and said, "She'd love that one, bein' run outta our own place by a girl. Kinda funny, ain't it?"

"Easy for you ta say," Murphy replied. "She went through half my smokes an' still has the rest." He paused, then smiled. "Ye know, that _is_ a good one."

They both glanced at the door, standing quietly for a moment, then Murphy asked, "So what do ye think?"

"Of her?" Connor replied, nodding towards the door.

"Aye."

"Well, she's up shite creek, ain't she? Fleecin' her boss outta that kind a loot, it's a fuckin wonder they didn't put her down on the spot."

"Maybe they don't know how much she cheated them for," Murphy pointed out. "Or maybe she's lyin about the money."

Connor shook his head. "Nah, she was tellin the truth. Christ knows what she's done with it, but there's more somewhere, enough ta be takin care of herself an' get the fuck outta here."

"But why didn't she, then? Why hang around?"

"Looks like she's set on killin this motherfucker. Can't say I hold it against her."

"She stole twenty grand. She knew she had ta be askin for trouble when they found out."

"She didn't ask ta be raped, Murph, an' it was a fuckin close call on that."

"Aye, I agree, he's got it comin. But she's gotta be fuckin crazy ta do somethin like that, ye think?"

"Maybe... Either crazy or desperate."

They waited and waited, denied access to their own apartment and slowly growing more impatient. Murphy finally squared his shoulders and headed for the door. "Right, this is a fuckin crock," he muttered as he raised his hand to knock. "She can take girlish modesty and shove it up her-"

"Wait, now," Connor told him. "Just wait a bit. It should be any minute now..."

A few moments later, they heard a shrill yelp and a few curses, then the water turned off.

"There ye have it," Connor said. "Ye warned her about the hot water."

Murphy grinned and laughed.

It wasn't long after that the door opened and Renata appeared, wearing a gray cable-knit sweater, faded jeans, and old sneakers. Her hair hung wet and tangled and one leg of her jeans was damp to the knee, and once again the smell of whiskey lingered around her.

"Half the shit in my bag's soaked," she said. "I took the liberty of washing my clothes out and I snagged a beer while I was in there." She cracked open a can of Guinness as she spoke, took a swallow, and raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. "Not bad."

Connor and Murphy exchanged glances and she stood back to let them into the apartment. She sat back down on the couch and asked, "So now what?"

"Roc should be on his way over," Murphy said, more to Connor than to Renata.

"Good," Connor replied. "We'll run by the club, take care a business, an' call it a day."

"What day is it?" Renata cut it.

"Thursday."

She nodded. "Reg will be there early," she said. "His shift starts around six but he gets in at four-thirty to get the rest of the crew in line."

"So we've got some time ta kill, then."

"Well, yeah. And I want to go with you when you get him."

"Why?" Murphy asked. "Ye're shot of him either way, and an evil man goes on ta judgment."

"It's personal," she replied. "You understand, right?"

The brothers paused, thinking of the morning Checkov and his comrade came storming in ready to kill. For a moment it was there again, Connor forced to chain himself and watch as they led Murphy outside to execute him, then Murphy watching from the ground as Connor fell fifty feet through empty air in a desperate bid to save him. It was personal enough to start with, but had either of them died that day, the other would have been hell-bent on the Russian's blood.

"Yeah, we get it," Connor told her. He and Murphy took up their previous seats and each lit up a cigarette, then Connor went on, "If it wasn't personal, we wouldn't be sittin here, me an' Murph."

Renata nodded, then asked, "Why are you even doing this? What made you walk into a strip club and decide to kill someone in the first place?"

"_How much should we tell her?_" Murphy asked, switching to Latin.

From her place on the couch, Renata rolled her eyes.

"_She doesn't need to know everything_," Connor told him. "_We're cutting her loose after this is over anyway."_

"Finished getting your story straight?" she asked.

"It's a long one," he said.

She laughed slightly and said, "Then give me the short version."

"Roc was set up. Someone was tryin ta kill him, so we moved in first."

"And Benny?"

"Call it fate if ye like."

"Fine then. But what about Reg? What's he filed under?"

"Evil," Murphy interjected.

She nodded. "All right, I'll give you that one." There was a thoughtful silence and she sipped at her beer for a moment, then asked, "So you're serious about this?"

"Aye," Connor replied. "I guess we are. Is that so hard ta believe?"

"Forgive my skepticism. It's just that nobody does favors for anybody, and they definitely don't offer to fucking _ kill_ people for random strangers."

"Ye said last night, we're not total strangers," Murphy told her. "An' who says it's not a favor ta society itself, if some bad motherfucker gets what he deserves?"

"Oh, so that's it? You just run across an evil guy and whack him?"

They were spared answering by a knock on the door. "That'll be Roc," Murphy said, and he opened the door for him. Rocco walked into the apartment, gave Renata a nod of acknowledgment, then asked the brothers, "So, what's the game plan?"

"We're gonna take care a this guy," Connor informed him. "He'll be at the club later. We get in, finish him, an' get out, game over."

"Good," Rocco went on, "because I've been thinking about who we should do next-"

Connor shook his head slightly and gave a pointed look at Renata; she rolled her eyes again and finished off the beer, then got to her feet and put on her coat. "I'll leave you gents to talk," she said. "Is that store still there on the corner, so I can get some cigs?"

"Up the road on the left as ye walk out," Murphy reminded her. "'Bout three blocks."

She nodded, took one last cigarette from the half-empty pack on the table, tucked her broken boots under her arm, and walked out.

Rocco watched her leave, then pointed after her with his thumb. "She's not in?" he asked.

"Fuck no," Connor replied.

"But you still think we can trust her?"

"Sure, to a point."

Rocco nodded and dropped into a chair. "How's this going to work tonight?"

"Do ye know the manager when ye see him?"

"Pretty fuckin hard not to. The guy's a brick wall and scary as fuck. I saw him break up a fight once, and he put a guy into the wall so hard he damn near when through the fuckin thing."

"A bullet'll take him down all the same," Murphy said.

Rocco looked from one to the other. "The manager is the one we're after?" he asked, fitting the pieces together. "He's the one who roughed her up?"

They nodded.

"Then she's damn lucky she's still breathing," he said.

Connor shook his head. "He was under orders, an' he had somethin else in mind besides. Guess she stabbed him an' made a break for it."

"Orders? From who?"

"The owner," Murphy answered. "He's runnin drugs through there, with the dancers all dealin for him."

"Sounds like a low life..."

"Aye..."

Renata returned ten minutes later with several grocery bags and missing her boots, likely having thrown them in a dumpster somewhere. She sat down on the couch, opened one of the bags, and took out two packs of cigarettes. She tossed one to Murphy and stuffed the other into her backpack, along with half a dozen candy bars and a bag of Twizzlers. The last thing she unpacked was a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. She tore off the paper and broke the seal on the bottle, then uncapped it and took several long gulps. She shivered as she lowered the bottle and sighed, "Ah, that's better..."

"Startin early?" Connor asked. "It's not even noon."

"Just a nip to tide me over," she replied. "Does anyone else need one?"

They all shook their heads and she stashed the bottle safely in her backpack, then she leaned back on the couch, her hand pressed to her leg where the gash was stitched and bandaged. "Shit, that stings," she muttered.

"Doin' too bad?" Murphy asked.

"I suppose I'll live," she said, "but walking was a bitch. I probably ought to lay low for awhile." She opened the bag of Twizzlers and stretched her leg out in front of her, chewing on a strand of licorice and acting for all the world as if she belonged there.

Connor, Murphy and Rocco sat silent for a moment, then Connor asked, "Where do ye plan on goin' from here?"

Renata shrugged. "I guess I'll head downstairs and see if the Reids feel accomodating."

"When?"

"Soon." She looked up at him and gave a sly smile. "You act like you want to get rid of me."

He gestured around the loft. "Well, ye can see we're not exactly set up for guests."

"Yeah, I know. This couch sucks." She shifted around a bit and added, "But I tell you, I could get used to walking in to such good-looking men." They all smiled and she finished, "And then Rocco."

The brothers shared a laugh and Rocco's smile vanished. "I remember you now," he said. "Everyone said you were a fuckin smart ass."

"Better a smart ass than a dumb ass," she replied with that wolfish grin.

* * *

It was midafternoon when the Lincoln pulled up outside the Sin Bin. The lights were off, the doors were closed, and there wasn't a soul around but for one squad car parked in front of the club; the cop inside had a newspaper folded open against the steering wheel and was thumbing through it, looking bored.

"Well, shit," Rocco cursed from the driver's seat. "Now what?"

"They've got a crime scene in there," Renata replied from the back seat. "They _would_ have closed the place, wouldn't they?"

"S'pose we shoulda thought a that," Connor chimed in from the seat next to her.

"So what next?" Murphy asked, riding shotgun.

"You're still going to get Reg, right?" Renata said.

"Aye. But where?"

"His house, I guess. I was over there to pick up my supply once, I know where it is."

"Where's that?"

"Across town. Some of the bouncers rent space from him, it's a pretty big house. If he's not here, he's probably there."

"Then let's go," Rocco said, putting the car in gear and driving away.

"Hold up," she said, "not so fast. We can't go over there today."

"Why not?" Connor asked her.

"Because I can't walk too good with my leg sewn up, and you're not going in without me."

"What?"

Renata threw her hands in exasperation. "We've been over this," she said. "I'm coming with you when you get him."

"No one said nothin about ye comin in."

"Well, what do you expect me to do, sit in the car and keep watch?"

"What did ye _think_ you were gonna do?" Murphy cut in, twisting in his seat to look back at her.

"The bastard half killed me and tried to rape me," she shot back, "so I _thought_ I was going to fucking watch him die!"

"We get it," Connor told her, "it's personal. But we're not in the business a revenge, ye know? That's not what we're about."

"Then what _is_ your business?" she demanded. "What is it that sets you apart from other hitmen?"

"Can we save this conversation for later?" Rocco asked. "Just tell me where the fuck I'm driving."

"Where's this guy live, Renata?" Murphy asked.

"Well, shit," she said, snapping her fingers as if in recollection. "I'm not sure I remember after all."

"What the fuck?" Connor interjected. "Quit fuckin around an' just tell us where he lives!"

"I'm going with you, or no one's going at all."

The brothers traded looks of exasperation, thinking the same thing. Wronged or not, injured or otherwise, this hellcat woman was trouble with a capital T. "We could walk the fuck away an' forget the whole thing," Murphy fired at her.

"You won't," she replied, confidence touching on arrogance. "He's an evil man, remember? You want to waste him too much to walk away."

"An' ye want him done too much not ta tell us," Connor argued. "The world's full enough of assholes an' we have better things ta do than waste time bitchin over one motherfucker."

Renata folded her arms and leaned back in the seat, looking stubborn. Some of the bruises on her face had begun to fade, but the worst of them stood out angry and lurid, and there was a hard fury in her eyes tightly coiled and ready to spring. "Reggie McDowell is a fucking monster if I ever saw one," she said. "Bad as I want him dead, it's nothing to how I want to see it with my own eyes."

There was silence in the car save the hum of the engine. With no destination, Rocco drove aimlessly, turning on whatever streets seemed to suit him. Renata stared angrily out the window, thinking of all those uneasy nights at the club when she could feel Reg watching her from across the room, all the vile shit he had done to the girls in his charge and the nightmare she had escaped in the office just days ago. Connor sat next to her, thinking deeply and casting her a glance on occasion. It was personal for her, yes, but maybe it was too personal. If she came with them when they killed this guy, how could they trust her to keep a cool head? And yet there was the deal with Checkov...if he'd killed Murph, it would never be enough just to hear the Russian was dead. He would want to see it go down, if not kill the son of a bitch himself-how could they deny the same to Renata?

"We can't rush in," he said at last. "We gotta watch this guy an' come up with a plan. That'll give Renata time ta heal, an' then we'll _talk_-" he shot a serious look at her and she glared back, "about her comin with us."

In the passenger seat, Murphy shrugged. "Works for me," he said. "Roc knew Vincenzo's habits, an' that was pretty useful. Renata, what do ye know about yer man?"

"He's a golfer," she replied. She still had welts across her knees and shoulders where he'd hit her with the putter. _Wonder what it would be like to beat him with his own driver..._

"What else?"

"Couldn't tell you. I wasn't trying to make friends with him." She rolled down her window an inch or two and lit a cigarette. "So it's a stakeout today?"

"I think it's wisest," Connor replied.

Rocco groaned. "We're just going to sit around and watch this bum's house?" he asked.

"Cheer up, Rocco," Renata told him. "I brought licorice and booze."

* * *

Reg's house was in an upscale neighborhood, but there was still something derelict about the faded paint, the overgrown landscaping, and the overflowing trash can sitting on the curb. There were two cars in the driveway, and Renata recognized one immediately. "That's his, the gray SUV," she said. "He's in there right now."

"What does a strip club manager do on a day off?" Rocco mused aloud.

"Beats me." She pointed at a window on the uppermost floor. "See that room?" she asked. "Whenever one of Benny's girls forgets her place, he sends her to stay there for a few days and all the guys volunteer to straighten her out. There was one girl who used to dance, Stacy, she kept acting up, so they brought her here and got her on heroin."

"I remember Stacy," Rocco said. "Perky blonde, kinda horsefaced but with killer tits? She stop working there?"

"They got her on fucking heroin, of course she stopped working there," she snapped.

"Shit, just asking a fuckin question..."

"Well, now you know. That's how shit happens over here."

"Christ," Connor murmured in disbelief.

"I don't think Christ had much to do with it," she told him.

"Connor, this has gotta be huge shit," Murphy told his brother. "A fuckin pimp gettin his girls hooked on shit like that, an' his partner in on the whole fuckin thing..."

Renata stared up at the window, her expression stony. "It's not a pretty picture," she agreed darkly. She sat in silence, then drew the bag of Twizzlers out of her backpack. "Anyone?" she offered. Connor and Rocco declined, but Murphy shrugged and helped himself to a few strands. She took a piece for herself, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before saying, "It's a nice afternoon...if I was a golf enthusiast with a day off, I'd schedule a tee time."

"Ye think that's what he did?" Murphy asked.

Renata shrugged. "It's possible."

They waited and watched with only an occasional passing car or pedestrian to prove there was life in the neighborhood. Rocco started nodding off behind the wheel and Renata began to fidget restlessly, but Connor and Murphy remained focused and alert. Just as Rocco's first snores broke the silence, Murphy nudged him awake. "Look, someone's comin out."

Renata leaned up, gazing hard at the man walking out the front door of the house. "That's him," she said, "that's Reg."

"Christ," Murphy swore, "he's fuckin huge!"

"Ye thought ye could take him with yer pigsticker?" Connor demanded incredulously.

Reg carried a bag of golf clubs to the gray SUV and loaded them up, then got in the car and drove away. Renata tapped Murphy on the shoulder and said, "Tee time. What did I tell you?"

Murphy nodded. "Good call."

"What do we do now?"

"What do ye know about the house?" Connor asked.

"Not much," she said. "Should we take a closer look?"

"Not with someone in the house," he said. "Could come walking out the front door like our man Reg."

"Ye think we're done for the day?" Murphy asked.

"Aye. An' we might head over earlier next time, get a better idea a who's comin in an' out."

Rocco shook his head. "I'm sitting that one out. I'm not cut out for stalking, I can only hang around for so much of this shit."

"Fine then. Murph, we need ta stop at McKennon's an' stock up."

"No offense, guys," Renata broke in, "but is this really the time to be discussing your grocery shopping?"

"Who said anythin about fuckin groceries?" Connor asked.

She caught his tone and looked up into his eyes, serious and guarded. Judging by their attitude about her livelihood, they weren't on drugs, and he wouldn't be so stern about a liquor retailer... "Is McKennon an arms dealer?" she concluded.

"Why do ye ask?"

"So that's a yes?"

All three men turned to stare at her, and she shrugged, taking another Twizzler. "It seemed like a fair question. You already know what I'm packing."

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Rocco queried.

She snapped the Twizzler in half before biting off one end. "Nope."

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but we do."

"Ah." She nodded. "No girls allowed, is that it?"

"It's just there's no point bringin ye all the way in," Murphy explained, "not just for one job. Right, Connor?"

"Sounds like ye're talkin sense," Connor replied.

Renata waved it off. "All right, I can tell when I'm not wanted. If you drop me downtown, I'll get out of your hair. I've got an errand to run anyway."

They went their separate ways when they got back into the city, Renata off on her errand and the brothers leading Rocco back to the south side to their chosen gun dealer. There was plenty of cash from what they collected from the mobsters at Copley Plaza and they were in good standing with McKennon. Laden with ammo and a few new handguns, they loaded up the car and went for a few drinks with Rocco before heading back home. They hauled the munitions to the elevator, got out on the fifth floor, and paused.

Renata was waiting for them.

"I see you've been busy," she said, nodding to their bags. She still had her backpack slung across her shoulder, but there was also a canvas duffel on the ground at her feet.

"What are ye doin' here?" Connor asked. "Weren't ye lookin in on the Reids?"

"I did," she replied. "They didn't remember me too well...well, I _should_ say they didn't have fond memories of me. And I guess they haven't heard shit out of cousin Kevin in a couple years, so they told me to hit the bricks."

"What about a motel?" Murphy asked.

"Well, I thought about that," she answered, "and the more I did, the more I don't like the idea of letting you two out of my sight. For all I know, I could be sitting on my thumb at the Red Roof while you're off nailing Reg without me."

"We said we're givin it a few days," Murphy told her. "Ye have our word on that."

"And it's nothing personal, but I don't take anyone at their word. I've been screwed over too many times."

"Ye got issues, Miss Malone," Connor said, moving towards the front door.

Renata blocked him and said, "Hold your horses, Mr. MacManus. I've got a proposal for you." She nudged her duffel with her foot and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Connor looked down at the bag. "What's that?"

"What do you think it is? It's everything I embezzled from Marcus."

"Ye need a better argument than that," Murphy informed her. "We're not interested in drug money."

"No, you prefer blood money," she retorted.

"What makes ye think that?"

"Hitmen generally get paid for their work, right?"

"We're not hitmen," Connor said. "Now move on, ye're gettin on my nerves."

"You haven't even heard my proposal yet," she protested.

"Ye wanna pay us not ta leave ye out of it when we take Reg. We'd already figured as much."

"Well, yes and no," she replied. "I want to stay here."

"Ye're still wasted," Murphy said.

"No, I'm serious. Until Reg is out of the picture, I want to know you two aren't going to take off and whack him, then I'll go on my merry way."

"I'm still not hearin much of a proposal," Connor told her.

She held up a hand to silence him and said, "Now, I noticed you're missing a certain fixture in there," she gestured to the door behind her with her thumb, "and I will pay to have it replaced."

The brothers traded looks of amusement. "Did ye hear what I just heard?" Connor asked.

"Aye," Murphy replied. "Sounds like she's buyin us off with a fuckin toilet."

"A bad ass fucking toilet," Renata added. "With an automatic flush, or something else fancy. And I'll cover the installation costs..." They didn't respond, so she played her trump card. "And I'll replace the car window I broke."

Connor chuckled. "Never had a girl so eager ta sleep on the couch," he commented.

"The couch sucks," she went on, "but motels scare the shit out of me. And have you ever slept behind trash cans before? Now _that's_ a bitch."

"He mighta blacked out on the way home from the local an' ended sleepin at a few bus stops," Murphy joked.

They all shared a laugh and Renata said, "See what I mean? We're all getting along so well, I'd hate to put an end to it so fast."

"I dunno..." Connor said. "Three's a crowd, ain't it?"

"Hell no. When I was growing up, three was company."

He smiled and looked at Murphy, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "All right," Connor told her, "what the hell. We got ourselves a flatmate, Murph."

Renata winked and flashed a devious smile. "Let's get inside," she said. "I've still got laundry hanging up in there." She picked up the duffel and shifted awkwardly in her injured leg. "Jesus, that's heavier than you'd think it would be."

"Where the fuck did ye stash twenty grand?" Connor asked, reaching past her to unlock the door.

"Halfway down the ladder into the sewer under the club," she answered, then paused. "Three prepositions in one sentence...we'd call that overachieving in my high school English class."

"Ye mean ye fuckin remember high school English class?" Connor asked, sounding mildly amused.

"Well, fuck yeah. English, literature, those were the only classes I got straight A's in. I've always gotten along with that shit."

Connor smiled slightly. "Didn't see that comin, Miss Malone."

"I told you, I'm good at surprises. What are you guys good at?"

"Drinkin, fightin, being polite an' charming," Murphy told her. "We're pretty fuckin handy with languages as well, an' ye should hear how many times Roc can fit the word 'fuck' in a sentence. Nearly every part a speech covered."

"Good. So I should fit right in."

"Depends. What booze do ye favor?"

"Jack Daniels."

Murphy shook his head. "We'll have ta introduce ye to Hennessy."

"Then I'm in the club?"

He looked her up and down, and she took the opportunity to do the same to him and Connor. "Ye never know. Ye might be on yer way."

**8/27 - revised. Another shout-out to archerlove!**


	7. Four Rounds

**Hello, my dears!**

**Guess what? Sean Patrick Flanery himself is coming to my city in May, courtesy of the Full Moon Horror &amp; Tattoo Festival. Oh. My. God! Cross your fingers that I can make it!**

**Pre-chapter notes: I like the way the first half turned out, but it took three tries before the second half came out as you see it. Nobody around here plays fair! Leave me some love before you go! :)**

Connor flicked on the lights as they walked in and he and Murphy hung their rosaries and deposited their bags on his bed. Renata set her backpack and duffel bag at the end of the couch, and the rattle of pills in plastic bottles echoed strangely in the quiet apartment.

"One rule," Connor told her, "ye can't have that shit in here. It's gotta go."

She looked down at her backpack. "Is there a problem with it? It's just meds."

"The fuck it is. We don't want it here."

"Do you know how much that shit is worth?"

"Don't care."

Renata looked to Murphy, who told her, "Dealin is in the past. If ye wanna stay, ye gotta get rid of it."

"So, what, are you boys trying to reform me now?" she asked.

"We're not out for your salvation," Connor said. "Just get rid of it or leave."

She sighed and dropped onto the couch, then began digging bottles out of her backpack. The brothers stood watching her until she finally straightened up and said, "That's all of it, and it's worth a pretty penny, trust me."

"There's, what, ten, eleven bottles here?" Connor asked.

"Thirteen," she corrected. "Once I had enough cash squirrelled away, I was able to swipe entire bottles without anyone noticing. I'd just hand over whatever it was worth and keep the pills."

"Why?" Murphy asked.

"These things are as good as bullion," she replied, giving a bottle of Valium a little shake. "You keep them stored away, and if you ever need money, just cash them in."

"Ye don't say?" Connor asked, unimpressed. He and Murphy collected the bottles and threw them into the garbage, Renata shaking her head as she watched. She lit a cigarette and sat back as they began to sort through the ammunition, dividing it into separate piles and examining the new handguns.

"I'll need one of those when we go for Reg," she announced, flicking ash onto the floor.

"D'ye know how ta use one?" Murphy asked.

"Of course I do. I used to go hunting with my grandpa in the summer."

"We've still got a few days ta discuss it," Connor replied, glancing down the sights of a Glock. "Wait'll the stitches come outta that leg an' we'll talk."

Renata shrugged.

The brothers put the firearms away, and Connor stretched out on his bed and lit a cigarette while Murphy poured three rounds of amber liquor. He handed one to Connor and one to Renata, seating himself at the table and saying, "Here's ta your initiation." She raised her glass to the brothers and they all drank. They studied her face for her reaction and Connor asked, "How was it?"

She coughed and licked the last few drops off her lips as she considered it. "That sure as hell ain't whiskey," she said at last.

"Did anyone say it was?" Murphy asked, smirking slightly. "That's brandy, sweetheart."

"It's Ma's favorite," Connor added, tilting his glass back again to get the drops at the bottom.

Renata nodded thoughtfully. "It's a little different than Jack."

"Ye think?" he replied. "It's been awhile since I tried yer stuff, m'self."

"Really?" She took the bottle out of her backpack and passed it to Murphy. "Set us up, my man." They all set their glasses back on the table as he poured and redistributed, then they drank again. Renata smiled her contentment, but Connor and Murphy looked skeptical. "Disappointing," Connor remarked, returning to his cigarette.

"What?" Renata said. "Come on, now, that's just un-American."

"Got a newsflash for ye, Renata," Murphy told her with a smile, letting his accent speak for itself.

She closed her eyes in a kind of racy appreciation. "I could get used to that accent, too..." She reached up to the ashtray on the table and put out the butt of her cigarette, brushing Murphy's arm so casually it might have been an accident. She leaned back again, tilting her head back to release the smoke before fixing her stare on Connor. "Ma's favorite or not, I wouldn't have pegged you boys for brandy."

"A little home away from home tradition, ye see," he replied.

"Aw, and you brought a third glass," she said with a smile quite different from her usual grin.

He smiled back at her. It wasn't hard to see what she was up to with her smiles and touches. He shot a look at Murphy and judging by the look on his face, his twin was enjoying the attention but wasn't about to take the bait either. He raised his eyebrows significantly. _She works fast, doesn't she?_

Murphy's smirk widened in agreement. _She does indeed._

Renata handed him her glass. "Give me one more of yours."

"Ye best take it easy," Connor warned her. "If ye've really been drinkin that much lately, ye don't need ta push your luck."

"A word on sobriety from an Irishman," she said. "That's a good one."

"Hey, I'm bein' serious," he told her. "I know ye're fond a hospitals, but there oughta be limits somewhere."

"No need to fuss, Mr. MacManus," she replied. "One more and I'm done. It's for luck."

"How's that?" Murphy asked.

"Three rounds," she said, "two Irish and one American. It just feels right."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Won't argue with that. Ye want in?" he asked Connor.

Connor paused, then nodded. "Aye, I'm in."

Murphy poured one more round of Hennessy for each of them and they saluted each other one more time before drinking. Renata lowered her glass again and asked, "Am I in the club yet?"

"We'll see how it goes," Murphy replied. "Ye made a start, at least."

"Hm. Good to know." She kicked off her sneakers and reached for her coat, preparing to go to sleep. "You gents just do your own thing. I'm calling it a night." She lay down, her arm tucked under her head and her legs left uncovered by the coat.

"Here," Connor said, tossing her a pillow. Murphy rose from the table and crossed the apartment, taking a spare blanket from his bed and bringing it to her.

She smiled. "I like this hospitality," she said. "Your mother raised you boys right."

"She'll be pleased ta hear that," Murphy replied, walking away again.

"What, you mean you're not tucking me in, either of you?"

"Wouldn't wanna take hospitality too far. 'Sides, Ma warned us about fast women."

"Fast? Me? Shucks, Murph, I'm just fucking with you. But while you're at it, tell her you're sharing bedding with a stripper, just to see what she says."

The brothers exchanged looks of amusement. "What'd Ma say ta that?" Murphy mused.

"Use condoms," Connor replied.

Renata laughed and set her coat aside, then fluffed Connor's pillow and spread Murphy's blanket over her. She lay down and fidgeted, trying to get comfortable, then settled in and said, "I'll see you in the morning."

Connor sat finishing his cigarette, then put out what was left in an ashtray beside his bed. "Might as well," he said, beginning to undress. Murphy shrugged and followed his example, going to his own bed. Across the room, Renata opened one eye the tiniest bit and watched as they stripped down to boxer shorts, her gaze lingering. Connor's golden skin and chiseled body were certainly worth a second look, and the more she stared the more convinced she was that Adonis was an Irishman. Murphy was paler and not so defined, but no less beautiful. It felt odd to apply that word to men, but she knew no other more fitting. They were beautiful. There was something intense about Murphy, an innate wildness that contrasted sharply with Connor's suave grace; both seemed of easygoing temperament, yet there was a certain power and purpose surrounding them that inspired respect and not a little awe. Her glance raked over the identical tattoos patterened upon their skin; a single word of Latin on one hand followed by a Celtic cross on the same forearm, and the Virgin Mary on the neck. _Nice ink, boys..._

Connor sensed the force of her stare and glanced at her, but she moved faster and closed her eyes again. He watched her for several moments, but the slow rhythm of her breathing announced she was asleep. He walked across the apartment and turned off the light, then got into bed. "G'night, Murph."

"Night."

* * *

Renata lay awake long after Connor and Murphy had fallen asleep. The couch was sunken on one end and a gap between the cushions acted even more like a sink hole, but that wasn't what kept her up. She was still sore and aching from Reg's attack and it was too quiet in the apartment. She had nothing to distract her thoughts.

Reg was there, lurking in the back of her mind even when he wasn't shadowing her in reality. Benny swaggered in and out, along with Marcus, puffing sedately on one of his cigars. She blocked them out, fantasizing a slow and painful death for each of them...well, at least she didn't have to worry about Benny anymore. Connor, Murphy and Rocco had settled that score already.

But as long as she was keeping score, there was still so much to account for.

Her eyes drifted over to the brothers asleep in their beds. Connor's hair was even more disheveled than usual and even as she watched he stirred slightly, scratching absently at his scalp before rolling onto his back and going still again. Murphy, on the other hand, didn't appear to be moving at all, sleeping like a corpse in its grave. If it wasn't for the steady, droning snores coming from his side of the room, she would have wondered if he was alive after all.

They had asked how she came to be in Boston, and she'd given them the abridged version. No, strike that, what she told them was a bare outline devoid of any substance. They didn't need to hear about Kevin Reid, just another loser in a parade of douchebag boyfriends she had somehow convinced herself she was in love with. They didn't need to hear how she had abandoned her mother to follow him all the way from Kansas City only for him to abandon her the instant shit got shittier in Boston. They _really_ didn't need to hear how, at the tender age of twenty-one, she had forsaken whatever innocence survived her wild child high school days of drinking, fighting and screwing in the moment she walked into the Sin Bin.

A fitting name, she reflected, considering what went on in that place. If the boys knew, and if they were serious about rubbing out bad guys, they wouldn't hesitate. If she told them what that place was _really_ like and what Marcus, Reg and Benny were _really_ up to, they would probably go in guns blazing, raining bullets down on every motherfucker in the fucking club. They would scourge the place in a storm of smoke and lead, and it would all be in the past.

If only the past wasn't the fucking problem.

Memories scrolled through her head like a videotape in a malfunctioning VCR, playing, rewinding, pausing on all the bad parts and rushing to the worst parts on fast forward. She did her best to block them out but they kept coming like demons leering and howling from the dark corners of her mind-

She kicked her way free of the blanket and sat up, reaching for her backpack. Her hands shook as she fumbled for the hidden pocket inside one of the seams, cursing the memories and the jittery, anxious feeling that came with going too long without something in her system. The Percocet she had taken that morning wasn't enough to get her through the night, not if she wanted a moment's peace.

She took out the plastic bag that contained her own private stash, sifting through the pills inside. There was a queasy feeling in her stomach like sudden flu, her body screaming its deprivation. Usually she tried to keep the shit in her bloodstream to avoid the feeling, but it was hard to get in the real nip with an audience like the MacManuses. She would have to keep that in mind and be a little more careful.

She popped a few pills into her mouth and took the bottle of Jack Daniel's off the table, washing everything down with a large swallow. Ah, the burn was slow and sweet, as purifying as it was intoxicating. It was amazing how it smothered out the noise in her head, quieting the things that kept her awake. If she had been of a religious nature, she would have called it a miracle.

Rearranging the blanket and trying to get comfortable again, she waited until the side effects took hold and carried her off into oblivion.

**8/27 - revised. If you haven't yet, you might want to go check out archerlove's fic, "Lights and Sirens." It's pretty awesome!**


	8. The Justice League

**What do you say we take a look at what Smecker and Co. are up to? I see the agent as something of a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Javert (any Holmesians or Mizzies in the audience?), and that starts to show through in here. I also think you can start to see why it has been such a frigging pain in the neck trying to write Smecker's scenes. Where is the balance between rehashing what the audience knows and providing new info? If I repeat anything you see in the movie, I'm keeping readers new to the plot in mind. Here's looking at you, Di!**

**Leave me some love!**

"DNA by the back door was female," Duffy announced, brandishing the report. "No match in the system, so a dead end on that, but we got a hit on prints on the back door and the wall by the blood. Belonging to one Renata Malone, booked about four years ago for drunk and disorderly, working on and off at the Sin Bin the past three and a half."

Smecker took the report, glancing over it thoughtfully. "Well, that's one mystery solved."

"What do you think it means?" Greenly asked.

"Most likely just that Miss Renata came to work toasted and banged her head against the wall," he replied.

"Pretty likely," Duffy agreed, looking at another report. "The stain on the carpet was whiskey, and freshly spilled judging by the penetration."

Smecker cast an eye over the mug shot of a young woman looking a little too far gone on drink and set it aside. Dead end. "Anything new on our shooters?"

"Not since the club," Dolly informed him. "It's weird...these guys come out of the blue, leave all these crime scenes in two fucking days, and now what? A day off?"

"They're still out there, Dolly," Smecker assured him, "and they'll pop up again soon. Men this twisted don't stop until they're caught, and these guys have to be pretty frigging twisted."

"Well, what makes you think that?" Greenly questioned. "So far the only victims are thugs. A shitload of mob guys and a couple more crooks for good measure...it's not so much a fuckin crime spree as it is crime fighting."

Smecker raised an eyebrow at him. "You're going down _that_ road, Greenly?"

The detective shrugged uncertainly. "It's the only connection, ain't it? Most of the vics are definitely mafia, but we got three other bad motherfuckers in the morgue with no mob ties. They got nothing else in common."

Smecker heaved a sigh. As far as the facts went, he was confused. He relied on his ability to see what others missed, but everything he saw lately made little sense. Multiple homicides at three separate scenes, all within forty-eight hours...no evidence, no suspects, and not even any new bodies, which was most confusing of all. If he had learned anything about serial killers in his years on the job, it was that mass murder didn't stop of its own accord.

Confusion did nothing to improve his mood. He turned to the detectives, suddenly annoyed. "Why the hell did you call me down here just to tell me a frigging stripper left blood at the workplace?" he demanded. He needed to think; in the absence of evidence, he could only rely on his brain power. He had his hands full trying to reason through all of this bullshit without having to babysit Boston's finest.

"Didn't know if you wanted to rule it out," Duffy explained. He had been all business handing over the reports, but he looked sheepish now, expecting another of the agent's reprimands.

"Duffy, why _wouldn't_ we rule out something that has nothing to do with our case?"

"So you think it's unrelated?" Greenly asked.

Smecker gave him a withering look. "Do me a favor and get me a coffee," he told him. "This shit is giving me a headache."

Greenly looked affronted...again. "You gotta be fuckin kidding me!"

"Maybe next time you'll be so lucky."

Greenly turned his back and stormed away, spewing obscenities and not troubling to keep his voice down.

Smecker squared his shoulders and faced Dolly and Duffy. "You're both competent cops, right?" he asked. "You've got fairly decent track records. It might take you awhile, but you usually get your man."

They both looked confused, but nodded.

"There are too many frigging coincidences here," he went on. "Pennies at two crime scenes, mobsters at all three...and a couple more crooks for good measure."

"You said something about a mob war before," Dolly suggested, trying to regain the flow of the conversation. "Maybe the two extra guys just got caught up in it?"

Smecker shook his head. "That's not right. There's a bigger picture here, just step back and take a look." They still looked uncomprehending, and he added, "You remember what Greenly said?"

"You mean Greenly was right about something?" Duffy asked, looking surprised.

Resignation and irony marked Smecker's expression. "Unnerving as it is to consider a theory from my coffee boy, it's the best we have. _Our_ guys are targeting bad guys, so we're looking for vigilantes."

Duffy and Dolly each heaved a sigh and Dolly muttered, "Just fucking great..."

"You see the problem," Smecker agreed. "A bunch of wannabe crime fighters on the loose, swatting out offenders like ants at a picnic."

"If the media gets hold of this," Duffy began.

"They will. Then every Joe Blow on the street will want to follow the example and start capping assholes, all for the greater good. It'll be pure anarchy."

"But we still don't know nothing," Dolly insisted. "We got two shooters with a lot of loose change and another going berserk shooting up diners-"

"They're working together," Smecker replied. They looked confused again, so he explained, "The guys at Copley Plaza were efficient for amateurs, and we know they like to leave pennies. The diner was sloppy with no pennies, so they had no part in it, but the guys in the other booths at the club were done just as sloppy as the diner. Now, whoever left the scene at the diner was there with the guys at the hotel, which means all our crime fighters have teamed up. You'll have an army on your hands before you know it, Boston's very own Justice League."

"So what do you propose?" Duffy inquired; he had a look on his face like overtime had been abolished.

"We need to get it under control, gentlemen. But our next quandary: what do we have besides barren crime scenes and conjecture?"

The detectives looked blank.

His smile widened into mockery. "Exactly. As long as these guys lay low, our hands are tied."

Well, facts were facts. All they could do was stand back and watch for the next move, wait for the next low life to be cut down. Hell, it had a certain convenience...it was a lot easier than chasing down every suspect, and provided a much more satisfactory conclusion to the chase than to spend weeks and months on an investigation only to have his quarry escape justice at the last possible minute. How many times had he watched crooks and criminals face the punishment they deserved, only for them to find ways around it: bribing officers and judges, hiring hot-shot attorneys, and eliminating witnesses. Those motherfuckers walked away laughing while he was forced to realize the law didn't serve justice. The worst ones always managed to get away with it, and how it haunted him to think of the men who walked free among the innocent. But these three guys...they solved the problem with hot lead and cold resolve...if only he could be so lucky...

He gave a sigh of envy and irritation. _I hate vigilantes._

**8/27 - revised... Archerlove on a roll!**


	9. Recon Mission

**Hey guys! It's been a little longer than usual, but this chapter just didn't want to get done. I cut out a LOT of dead weight and added a few more scenes, and you might have noticed I'm playing around with the accents a little more...tell me what you think! Feedback is always welcome!**

Connor and Murphy rose early as usual on Sunday morning, but Renata slept on. Connor went to her and tapped her on the shoulder to wake her. "C'mon, Renata, up an' at em."

She stirred and opened her eyes slightly. "What's going on?" she asked.

"We're headin ta Mass," he told her.

She hummed in acknowledgment. "Wake me up when you get back." She pulled the blanket over her head.

He drew it back down again and said, "We're not comin back after. We got shit ta do today."

"Another stakeout," Murphy said, "an' we gotta run by the hardware store..."

"Yeah, ye're buyin a toilet, remember?"

Renata groaned and rubbed at her tired eyes. "What time is it?"

"Ye prob'ly don't wanna know," Connor told her. "We'll be out in the car. If ye want in today, be ready in five minutes or we're leavin without ye."

She heaved an aggrieved sigh and flung off the blanket. The brothers turned for the door, pausing at the threshold to collect their rosaries and hang them around their necks. Still grumbling her annoyance at early morning piety, Renata set about getting ready.

Down in the car, Murphy glanced at the clock on the dash. "It's been more'n five minutes," he said. "We're gonna be fuckin late. Are we leavin or not?"

"Just give it a little more," Connor replied calmly. "She'll be down."

Moments later, Renata came out of the building, carrying her coat and her backpack. Connor tapped on the horn and called out the window, "Ye took yer fuckin time!"

"Half a fucking second, already!" she shot back, walking to the car. She still had an irritable, I-hate-mornings expression, and the brothers grinned as she continued to curse and mutter. She reached for the door handle and Connor tapped the gas, making the car lunge forward. "Really?" she demanded as he and Murphy laughed from the front seat. She got in the back and slammed the door. "I thought you were supposed to be mature adults."

"An' I thought ye were s'posed ta be fuckin ready," Connor bantered back, pulling away from the curb.

"Oh, you mean you haven't heard? Women are never ready on time. Get used to it."

"I'll be sure ta keep it in mind."

They drove through the neighborhood in silence and Renata began to nod off, her head bobbing with the motion of the car. It gave a jolt as they hit a bump in the road and she banged her head against the window, startling her back to awareness. In an effort to stay awake and avoid further injury, she tried to make conversation. "So, Catholics."

"Aye," Murphy replied.

She nodded. "Way to defy all the stereotypes, fellas."

"Oh, is that right? What about you, then? Protestant heretic?"

"Raised that way. I converted later on. Now I'm a practicing agnostic." She yawned and dug through her backpack for a Snickers bar. "I wish I had brothers and sisters growing up," she said as she unwrapped it. "Even a cousin would have been fine with me."

"Only child?" Connor asked.

"Yep." She paused to take a bite of the candy bar and continued through a mouthful of chocolate, "I got spoiled as a kid, especially at my grandparents' house."

"There was none a that when we were kids," he replied. "Ma wouldn't hear of it."

"Any other siblings?"

"Nah. But plenty a cousins."

"And the whole gang's back in the mother country?"

"Sure."

She nodded again. "My grandparents were immigrants. Granddad was from Hamburg, and Nana was from Aberdeen. She was psychic, you know."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She predicted my birth from the time my mother went into labor to the moment I came out. Thirty-three hours and twenty-six minutes exactly. Of course, she also predicted I'd be a hermaphrodite, but..."

"Where the fuck did that come from?" Murphy asked.

"She didn't like my dad," she replied. "She knew he was a bad seed. I walked in on him banging my babysitter once, and he took off when I was in the fourth grade."

"Sorry 'bout that. Our da left too."

She crumpled the Snickers wrapper and stuffed it into her backpack. "Let me guess, he was sleeping with a skank at the office."

"Nah. He just left."

"Why?"

"No idea."

"Sheesh, that's rough..." She stared out the window for a moment, then said, "I'm curious as to who is big brother in this equation."

"So're we," Connor told her.

"What? How can you not know who-" She paused as logic caught up with her. "So you must be-"

"Twins, yeah."

"And you don't know who's oldest?"

"Sure we don't."

She cracked up laughing. "That's fucked up, man!"

"That's our fuckin mother for ye. We've been tryin ta get it outta her for years, an' she still won't fuckin spill it."

"But we both know I'm the oldest," Murphy remarked with a wicked grin.

"Oh, the fuck ye are," Connor told him, giving him a shove.

"Don't be talkin that filth in front a the lady."

"Lady?" Renata asked, looking around. "I don't see a lady. Is she riding in the trunk?"

"She got ye there, Murph," Connor said, smirking.

"So what are you trying to say, Connor?" she countered, turning the tables. "You saying I can't be a lady? How rude of you."

Murphy's grin widened. "Ye walked right inta that one, _little_ brother."

"Ah, shut yer fuckin trap, ye bastard...and _I'm_ the oldest."

Murphy whacked him over the head.

They pulled up outside the church and Connor parked the car. "Ye comin in?" he asked Renata.

She pondered the question, then shook her head. "No, I'll pass. A heretic in the house of God, I'd probably be struck by hellfire."

"Suit yerself." He and Murphy got out of the car and walked up the steps of the church and she watched them go inside. She hadn't set foot in a church in years, not since her grandfather's funeral. She had never been religious, but with all the marks against her she wasn't sure the Man Upstairs wouldn't smite her on the spot if she dared enter His temple.

She dug her cigarettes out of her backpack and flicked her lighter, staring at the flame before lighting up.

* * *

When Connor and Murphy left the service, Renata was sitting in the front seat of the car, using the rearview mirror to put makeup over her fading bruises. The wind cutting in through the missing window blew her hair across her face, sticking to her fresh lipstick. She huffed in irritation and pulled her hair back behind her shoulders, but the wind persisted, whipping it into a tangled mess.

"Havin trouble?" Connor asked.

She looked up through her windblown mop and replied, "What gave it away?"

"Call it a lucky guess," he said, getting in on the driver's side. "Goin' somewhere special?"

"No, I just got tired of looking at myself."

Murphy opened the passenger side door and nodded towards the backseat. "C'mon. To the back with ye."

"Only if one of you comes with me," she said, raising her eyebrows suggestively, a playful smile on her freshly painted lips.

"Christ, woman, we just fuckin got outta church," he chided, trying to suppress his own smile as he ushered her from the front.

"Yeah, you're right. You're too holy for me. I hope you lit a candle and prayed for me," she replied, tossing her backpack onto the backseat and climbing in after it.

"I'm of a mind ta go back an' do it," he told her. He got in the car and closed the door, and they drove off.

"What's on the agenda now?" she asked, combing out her hair with her fingers.

"We head over ta watch yer friend's place for a few hours," Connor answered.

"Hm. Who wants a Snickers?"

They got to Reg's neighborhood and parked far enough away from the house to be unnoticed while staying close enough to see what was going on. "No cars outside," Connor remarked.

"They're all night owls," Renata pointed out. "They should be getting in pretty soon. God knows what they're doing with the club shut down."

"Should we take a closer look?" Murphy asked.

Connor paused, then got out of the car. "Wait here an' keep watch," he said.

"And what are we supposed to do if someone shows up?" Renata questioned. "Yell? Call the cops? Snipe him in the driveway?"

He ignored her and set off up the street, looking casual as could be.

She shook her head. "He's lost it."

"He knows what the fuck he's doin'," Murphy told her.

Connor moved up the driveway as if it was an everyday occurrence and opened the gate in the privacy fence around the backyard, then disappeared. Murphy and Renata sat quietly for several minutes, the lingering chill coming in through the open window. In the front seat, he shivered and thrust his hands into his pockets. "That fuckin window..."

"Hey, I said I'll fucking fix it," Renata replied. "I wasn't going down without a fight. I had enough of that shit with Reg."

Murphy stared at the house where Connor was still investigating the territory and asked, "Was he always like that?"

"Ever since I started there. I took a few breaks away from that place when I could, but shit always happened and I had to go back. The customers were all pigs, but Reg was the worst. I could tell what he wanted every time he looked at me." She gave an involuntary shudder and went on, "He almost got it that day." She took out her cigarettes and offered him one; he accepted and she passed him her lighter as well. They returned to the earlier silence, still watching the house.

"See anything?" she asked after a while.

"Nah," he replied. "Wonder what the fuck's takin so-"

Connor climbed over the fence around the backyard and dropped to the ground. He edged around the house, crossed the yard, and gained the sidewalk, returning to the car and getting inside before speaking. "The gate was unlocked an' the kitchen window was open, but it shouldn't be hard ta jimmy it if necessary. The back door's no good, slidin glass an' a broomstick handle ta keep it shut."

"Did ye get inside?" Murphy asked.

"Aye. Looks like about five livin there."

"That oughta be easy, then. Ye wanna catch em all at once?"

"We could." Connor glanced back at Renata. "What kind a guys are these?" he asked.

"You mean how do they rank in terms of evil?" she countered.

He and Murphy nodded.

"I told you, they're all corrupt. They're selling shit at the club just like the rest, and they're all in on it whenever Benny has a girl there. Does that count?"

Murphy glanced at Connor, raising an eyebrow. _What do you think?_

Connor shrugged and spread his hands. _Why the fuck not?_

Renata watched the silent exchange closely, expression shrewd and stony. "Well?" she prompted.

"Evil men..." Connor said softly.

"Dead men," Murphy concluded.

She looked from one to the other, then shrugged. "Amen."

* * *

"So the job should be simple?" Rocco asked.

They had all met up at a diner near the boys' apartment to discuss the day's findings; the food was only so-so, but the coffee was excellent.

"Should be," Connor replied, taking a sip of coffee.

"And when are we going in?"

Renata cleared her throat loudly, stirring cream and sugar into her coffee.

"After the stitches are out," Connor answered.

She gave a contented smile.

"Don't start lookin too excited," Murphy warned her. "No one said ye're comin."

"No one ruled it out, either," she replied.

"What else do ye know about these guys?" Connor inquired.

"Well, there's Reg, of course," she began, "then Chad, he's always in shit over gambling debts, and Jason, he's Reg's enforcer in the club. Then there's Art the pot head, and Nugget."

"Nugget?"

"It's a joke. He's nearly as big as Reg. He just got out of prison for beating a guy with a tube sock full of billiard balls, and he does extra on the side selling dope. He's the loose cannon. Reg always had to keep an eye on him."

"Duly noted," Connor told her.

"How does this work?" she asked. "Do we watch them and learn their patterns, then form a plan of action or something?"

"Actually, we usually just wing it," Murphy replied.

"Great. I signed on with Moe, Larry, and Curly."

"Guess that makes ye Shemp, then," Connor told her.

She rolled her eyes but she still smiled, taking a Twizzler from the bag in her backpack.

It was Connor's turn to roll his eyes. "For Christ's fuckin sake, woman, ye're in a fuckin diner, why don't ye eat somethin?"

"I suppose I'm knitting a sweater," she argued, biting off the end of the candy. "What are you, my mother?"

"Sylvie," he called, addressing the waitress across the diner, "would ye get this girl a cheeseburger? I've yet ta see her take any real fuckin food."

"How do you want it, hon?" Sylvie asked, whipping out her ticket pad as she approached.

Renata shrugged. "The same way I want my men, red hot with plenty of sizzle." She gave the brothers a sideways glance and a wink. "Make it a double with all the good stuff."

Sylvie walked away and Connor asked casually with a wicked gleam in his eye, "Are ye sure ye can handle the double, girl? I've seen it, an' it might be a bit too much for ye."

"I don't scare that easy, Mr. MacManus," she replied. "I've got a pretty big appetite, and I'll try any dish that looks tasty."

Rocco listened to the exchange and grumbled, "How come you guys get all the chicks?"

"It's the accent, Roc," Murphy replied with a smirk, listening to the banter. "They can't fuckin resist it."

He shrugged it off and went on, "After this one, I got an idea for our next job. This motherfucker's had it coming to him since I met him."

"Yeah? Fill us in."

"Wait a second," Renata interrupted. "You guys really aren't hit men?"

"Really," Connor answered. "Murder for hire's not our thing."

"But plain murder is, as long as the guy deserves it?"

"Would ye keep yer fuckin voice down?" Murphy implored. He looked around the diner to see if anyone was nearby to listen in, and when the coast was clear he corrected her. "Not murder. Retribution." The humor had fled his voice, replaced by an unflinching gravity, and his eyes found hers, holding her stare with no effort at all. "We do what no one else has the fuckin balls ta do an' see that the scum a society gets what the fuck they got comin to em. Real justice, no fuckin mercy."

Renata nodded along, never questioning but beginning to wrap her mind around it. "Evil men, dead men?" she asked.

"Aye," Connor replied. "'Bout fuckin time someone took up the sword, don't ye think?"

She shook her head in pure amazement. "Wow."

"Yeah," Rocco agreed. "That's fuckin insane, isn't it?"

"Just a bit," she said, "but on the other hand...it's fucking brilliant."

Murphy nodded. "Exactly. Now ye get it."

She went quiet, staring down into her coffee.

Sylvie reappeared, carrying a plate piled with homestyle fries and the biggest cheeseburger Renata had ever seen. "Here you go," she said. "Watch it, those fries are hot."

"Holy shit, that's huge," Renata said, swatting Murphy's hand away from the fries and missing Rocco sneaking a few off the plate when she wasn't looking.

"Ye ordered a double," Connor reminded her. He stared skeptically at all the food and asked "Are ye sure ye can eat all that?"

"Fuck yeah. I've eaten bigger things than this, if you know what I mean."

"Easy, there, darlin, this is a family place."

"Which is to say, quit needlessly turning you on." She poured ketchup over the fries and reached for the burger, pausing to shoo Murphy away again. "Get your own and stay out of my plate," she told him.

"Quit bein' so fuckin narky with me," he replied, "when ye haven't even noticed Roc's been inta yer plate since it got ta the fuckin table."

She looked up in time to catch Rocco red-handed, stolen fries halfway to his mouth. "You asswipe," she cursed.

He stuffed the fries into his mouth with no remorse and replied, "Survival of the fittest, Malone." And he helped himself to more fries.

"You son of a-" She grabbed the ketchup and upended it over his coffee, pouring half the bottle into the cup.

Connor and Murphy burst out laughing while Rocco sat flabbergasted. He finally snatched the cup and stared at the mess inside it, sputtering, "You bitch!"

"Don't steal shit off my plate, dickwad," she shot back.

"Sylvie!" Connor and Murphy called.

The waitress returned to the table. "What can I do for you boys?" Rocco handed her the tainted coffee and she tried not to smile, asking, "Who did it this time?"

All three men pointed at Renata and Sylvie lost the battle with her smile. She brought Rocco a fresh cup and he took it quietly, keeping it well out of Renata's reach. Renata herself started on her cheeseburger at last, eating unaffectedly for a few minutes before she reached for her backpack. Glancing around to make sure Sylvie wasn't looking, she took out the bottle of Jack Daniel's and poured a shot into the cup.

Connor pushed his coffee across the table towards her and she gave him a quizzical look. "I thought it was disappointing," she said.

"What the fuck."

She shrugged and added the whiskey, then glanced at Murphy and Rocco. "Anyone else, while I'm at it?"

They both nodded and she spiked the rest of the coffee before hiding the bottle in her bag again. She took a long drink and said, "You know, if I'm Shemp, that means one of you is out. There were only ever three Stooges at a time."

"I preferred the musketeer analogy anyway," Rocco informed her.

"All right, then." She considered it for a moment, then indicated Murphy, then Rocco, then Connor. "Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Which makes me d'Artagnan."

"Ye sound pleased with yerself," Murphy said.

"Hey, it sure beats the fuck out of Shemp." She pushed the plate of fries across the table towards him, ignoring Rocco's indignant muttering. "You want any?"

**10/20 - revised, thanks once again to archerlove.**


	10. Insomnia

**A shout out to xxInspireMexx for giving me the idea for Smecker's backstory. Love ya, girlie! :) ****This one took some time, but it was a lot of fun. I hope you like it, and I really hope you tell me what you think. Reviews are lovely things, you know!**

Paul Smecker paced back and forth in his hotel room, a lit cigarette in hand and a half-empty bottle of wine standing ready on the bar. He poured himself a glass and swilled it gently around the goblet before inhaling deeply. Good color, fragrant bouquet...he drank, and it lived up to his expectations, which was more than he could say about this case.

Another day, and no new information. There was no word from Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly since he suggested they were hunting vigilantes, which was something of a relief. If he was getting nowhere on the hunt, then at least there were no pointless distractions from the detectives.

And yet he was far from peaceful. The clock on the nightstand read late after midnight, but sleep was the last thing on his mind. Fifteen murders in two days, and then two days with absolutely nothing. It was inconsistent, unpredictable, nothing like what he would have expected. Most frustrating of all, he was forced to wait patiently for another killing before he could hope to move forward with this frigging case. It was no new phenomenon, having to sit back until a criminal struck again, but it was one he despised nonetheless.

But he had to admit, his supposition that the next victims would be criminals like all the others did something to relieve a bit of the stress. The guys getting bumped off were just the sort he had set himself to bringing to justice wherever possible. There was always a deep satisfaction knowing that his efforts to rout out wrongdoers came to fruition, but it didn't assuage the sting when all he could do was in vain. He had learned that lesson long ago, almost as soon as he joined the Bureau. His first major case, his first taste of failure, and it was as bitter now as it was all those years ago.

He took another swallow of wine, thinking back...

* * *

_Several years ago_

"It's not going to work, Paul. He's going to walk."

"What do you mean, he's going to walk?"

Smecker stood in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, headquarters of the FBI smack in the middle of Washington, D.C., eye to eye with his supervisor. Agent Myers looked sympathetic, but resigned. Resigned to what? Smecker had spent months on this case, using every ounce of intelligence and cunning he possessed tracking down one of the most notorious gangsters he had ever seen.

Douglas Ledford, the Al Capone of his generation. To all appearances, he was a successful, white collar businessman, but his name was a household word in the criminal underground, with dealings in every black market industry in the country. He imported drugs from South America and weapons from Russia, but worst of all was his foothold on human trafficking. Immigrant women smuggled into America and put in the sex trade, American women abducted and sold to pimps across the country and even outside it, even children had vanished into Ledford's web of infamy. His empire was built on money and muscle, and his legacy was of fear and blood. Smecker had nearly run himself into the ground in the pursuit, but the case he had built was watertight, the evidence incontrovertible. He refused to believe it was for nothing.

"The attorney general isn't taking him to trial," Myers explained. "He says the case will fall apart in court. Ledford's lawyers will shoot us down, we'll waste even more time and tax dollars, and we'll lose."

"We can't lose!"

Myers felt sorry for the young agent. Smecker was relatively new to the FBI, his experience in law enforcement somewhat outweighed by his considerable abilities. Yet those abilities had earned him the respect of his colleagues, and his energy and determination had driven him to succeed early on in his career. Soon after his transfer to the Bureau, he had been promoted to the position he now held in the Organized Crime Task Force, where his eccentricities were overlooked in favor of his skills. He was one of the best agents Myers had seen in years, but still naive to the struggles and glitches in fighting organized crime.

He took a deep breath and continued patiently, "All we have is circumstantial. We can't tie Ledford directly to anything, some of the documents seized in the raid are forgeries, and we only have one eyewitness."

"Peterson is going to testify," Smecker assured his superior. "He'll take the plea bargain we offered and that will be the end of it."

Myers shook his head. "He says that now, but he'll back out and take a full sentence before he says anything against Ledford. Too many have been killed for talking, and he doesn't want to be next. Without him, we have nothing."

Smecker was at a loss for words for a moment, searching for an alternative. "We don't need Peterson," he said at last. "We'll start again and we'll dig deeper, we'll go undercover, whatever it takes-"

"It won't work," Myers assured him. "Guys like Ledford use the love of money and the fear of God to their advantage. We can't get far enough to conquer either."

"So we're just letting him off the frigging hook?" Smecker's voice was sharp, his gaze searing and demanding as he stared at Myers. "We're setting him loose with, what, a note of apology? We screwed up, sorry for the inconvenience?"

"Paul, I understand you're upset, but this is how it goes," Myers told him. "It's bullshit, and you never get used to it, but sometimes they get off. We can't always corner the bad guys."

"Aren't you even willing to try?"

"Paul. Try to think clearly about this. We might have lost him this time, but he's going to slip up. He can't be this careful forever. He's going to let his guard down, and when he does we'll nail him to the wall. We just have to wait."

Smecker stood and stared. He felt like it was all a game of musical chairs, and he was left standing once the song was over. This wasn't right, it wasn't _justice_. "Wait for what?" he asked. "For more drugs to be smuggled in, more girls taken into the sex trade, and more people to die to cover this shit up?"

Myers raised his hand in a calming gesture. "I know, I said it's bullshit, but short of seeking him out and shooting him where he stands, there's nothing we can do about it. And you know as well as I do the only thing setting us apart from him is that we don't cross that line. I'm sorry, Paul."

Smecker finally nodded, looking collected and resigned, but he was no less convicted. He would keep trying; as long as Ledford walked free, he wouldn't stop hunting him.

* * *

Seating himself on the couch in the quiet hotel room in Boston, Smecker finished his cigarette as his thoughts wove tighter together. The Doug Ledford case was long in the past, but he carried it with him nonetheless. He'd held onto it all these years, just waiting for the chance Agent Myers had spoken of, to finally see that prick behind bars where he belonged. It drove his pursuit of justice and hardened his resolve to track down every other criminal he hunted. As long as guys like Ledford existed, he couldn't stop chasing them.

In a fashion, he had something in common with these would-be do-gooders he was after. They sought to eradicate evil men as he did...the only difference was they had crossed the line Agent Myers told him of years ago. He represented the law, and these men were a law unto themselves. It was a delicate balance to maintain between the code he upheld and the justice he sought, but he had managed it thus far and it wasn't about to change as far as he could tell.

He glanced at the clock-quarter after one. He lit a new cigarette off the old one and settled back on the couch. He didn't feel like sleeping anyway.

* * *

A persistent clicking noise woke Connor from an otherwise peaceful slumber. He had always been a light sleeper anyway, but that clicking was getting on his nerves.

He opened his eyes and looked around the apartment. Renata sat awake on the couch, having shimmied out of her clothes at some point and changed into an overlarge sweatshirt he vaguely remembered Murphy loaning her. She stared aimlessly into space, flicking her lighter over and over and causing that fucking clicking that was keeping him awake.

"What are ye doin?" he asked. "Why aren't ye asleep?"

"I could ask you the same thing," she replied, still flicking the lighter.

"Ye woke me up playin with that fuckin thing," he told her. "What's yer excuse?"

"I'm still on a night schedule. This is my daytime."

The flame winking in her hand was just as annoying as the clicking. "Would ye cut that out?" he asked.

"Worried I'm going to set something on fire?" She kept it lit and tilted it back and forth, edging closer and closer to the blanket. "Does this make you nervous?"

"Renata-"

"Uh oh," she taunted as the flame nearly touched the blanket. "Uh oh, I think it's starting to scorch..."

"Renata, fuckin stop it-"

"Shit!" she yelped, dropping the lighter as the flint grew too hot to hold and waving her burned fingers in the air as if to shake off the sting.

It was hard not to feel smug. "See? Ye shouldn't play with fire."

"Yeah, yeah."

On the other side of the room, Murphy lay flat on his back, deep in the sleep that evaded Connor and Renata and snoring steadily. Renata stared over at him in amusement and asked, "You can sleep through that chainsaw, but a lighter woke you up?"

"Ye get used ta the snorin," Connor replied. He propped himself up on one elbow to talk and went on, "Murph, though, he can sleep through anythin, lucky bastard. Well," he paused, smiling to himself, "maybe not so lucky. I used ta fuck with him when we were kids, tryin ta see if I could get him ta wake up."

Renata chuckled and shuffled around on the couch, her legs snaking out from under the blanket. She rubbed irritably at the bandage on her thigh, complaining, "Damn stitches keep pulling."

"Does it hurt any?"

"No. It just feels bizarre."

There was a few minutes silence, broken by Murphy's snores, then Connor asked, "What are ye gonna do after we get Reg?"

"We?" she repeated. "No one said I was coming, remember?"

"No one ruled it out, either."

She shrugged. "I don't know. I've got enough cash, I can go anywhere. I could travel for awhile, or I could go home."

"An' where's home?"

"Kansas City, Missouri. Lived there all my life before I came here, except for summers when I went to stay on the farm with my grandparents in Sedalia."

"Well, would ye look at that?" he teased. "Three more prepositions in that sentence."

"I have a reputation to protect," she replied with a smile. She pushed her sleeves up to her elbows and asked, "Where's home for you two?"

"In County Wicklow, just south from Dublin. We have relatives in the country, but most of em are in town. Ma's brother runs a pub, so everyone's in an' outta there drinkin for free."

She laughed. "How did you end up in America?"

Connor shrugged. "I dunno if it hit the news in the States, but the situation is royally fucked back home. Irish against English, Catholics against Protestants, Northern Ireland stayin loyal ta the Brits with the rest a the country screamin for unity. Dependin on who ye ask, the IRA are either extremists an' terrorists, or patriots an' heroes. Ma didn't want us near it, sayin she'd disown our sorry arses if we didn't get the fuck out. It was all goin ta shite back home an' she had cousins in Boston, so it was a good opportunity ta try our luck."

"And, what, just leave your mother in all of that?"

"Ye don't know Ma. She can handle herself well enough, an' she still calls ta torment us on weekends an' holidays. 'Sides, it was her idea ta come here anyway.

"Do you miss home?"

"Do _you?_"

Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. I miss the barbecue and the fountains, but it always felt like there was nothing there, nowhere to go. All right for a starting point, but not where you want to end. But hell-" she gave a mocking laugh, "this isn't where I pictured ending, either."

"Nah." He lay back and stared up at the ceiling, folding his hands behind his head. "It's not as bad as all that, though. I think ye have a way of endin where ye're meant, ye know?"

"You mean you were meant to end here?" she asked, waving her hand around the loft.

"Ye never know. This ain't the end yet."

She gave a hum in response. Across the room, Murphy continued to snore and she shot another look at him. "Just listen to that!" she said. "That's enough to shake the dust out of the rafters!" She paused, then glanced at Connor. "You want to relive your childhood?"

Connor glanced over at his brother, then grinned and nodded.

Renata rose from the couch and crept over to Murphy's bed, prowling like a wolf on the hunt. The sweatshirt covered what mattered, ending mid-thigh, but there was still a lot of skin left on display, and Connor found himself staring before he realized it. She dropped to the floor beside the still-snoring Murphy, sleek, powerful legs gathered beneath her as if ready to pounce; the neck of the sweatshirt slipped down her bare shoulder and she absently adjusted it, pushing her sleeves back up as an afterthought. He wondered with a sudden, heated surge of interest what she was wearing underneath it, deciding that "nothing" was a likely answer...and deciding immediately afterward that that was probably wondering too much.

He slid out of bed and crouched beside her on the floor, putting her out of his line of vision. If that placed him in closer proximity to her in the process, well, that couldn't be helped, could it?

She gazed at him out of the corner of her eye, the warmth of his body so near and inviting in the chilly loft. Just boxers again, and she took the opportunity to get a good look at him. He was nothing but lean, sculpted muscle, and she doubted he had an inch of fat on him. He wasn't bulky like the guys at the Sin Bin, who worked out with the sole intent of getting ripped; she guessed Connor's physique was wrought through hard labor or simple athleticism. Considering the early spring climate, she wondered where he'd gotten that gorgeous, golden tan, and her fingers tingled with the urge to grasp a handful of that messy, dirty-blonde hair. He leaned over his brother and the muscles in his shoulders rippled, and she shivered slightly. He looked like he could have just walked out of a photoshoot for _Playgirl_.

"Murph," he said in a stage whisper, "Murph, are ye in there?" Murphy's only response was another snore, and Connor clapped his hands loudly beside his ear. "Rise an' shine, boyo!" Renata snickered as he yanked on a hank of hair and held his brother's nose until Murphy swatted his hand away and still slept on. "Have ye got a torch?"

"Butane."

"Nah, I mean a flashlight."

"Oh. Nope, just the lighter."

"Ah, fuck, close enough. Give it here."

She swept to her feet and retrieved the lighter from where she'd dropped it, then handed it to Connor. He took it as she knelt with him and he flicked it beside Murphy's ear, the metallic click grating in the quiet. He held it close enough to his face for the heat to be felt, propping one eye open to catch the light.

"Oh, watch it," Renata warned. "Don't set him on fire, for crying out loud."

"Relax," Connor replied, "I'm not gonna set him-"

Murphy rolled onto his side and the open flame ignited a lock of hair.

Connor's eyes widened in shock. "Fuck!" he cursed, dropping the lighter and swatting at the flame. Renata burst out laughing and Connor snatched the pillow from under Murphy's head and socked him with it, smothering the flame and finally waking him up. He looked from one to the other in confusion, eyes still foggy with sleep. "What the fuck're ye doin?" he asked drowsily.

Connor slowly started to laugh in spite of himself, his mouth twisting into a smile. "Sorry, Murph," he said, "it was an accident, I promise."

"What?"

"I set ye on fire."

Murphy panicked, thrashing in the bed and trying to rise while only tangling himself further in the blankets. Connor and Renata laughed even harder as he rolled right off the mattress and hit the floor with a loud thump. He freed himself and glared at the conspirators, still laughing at his expense. "Ye think that's fuckin funny?" he demanded, though their shared outburst was answer enough. He got to his feet and snatched up his pillow, adding, "Get a laugh outta this." And he walloped Connor with enough force to send him pitching sideways.

Renata leaped clear with a giggle as Murphy fell on his twin, fists flying, and Connor retaliated, both heaving insults all the while. It wasn't a serious brawl, more like a playful scuffle, wrestling between the beds and each trying to pin the other. Connor had the advantage, being a few inches taller and a few pounds heavier, but Murphy wasn't going down easily. Renata appraised him as best she could, picking him out of the tangle of thrashing limbs and the whirl of profanity. He was paler than Connor but sported several more tattoos, and her eyes took in the ink before moving on. He didn't have his brother's athletic build, either, but he had broader shoulders and muscular arms, and he scrapped like he'd been doing it his whole life...given his current opponent, she decided he probably had. His hair, minus the chunk that had seen the business end of her lighter, was darker and longer than Connor's tousled mop and hung low on his forehead, stirred out of order in the heat of battle. For being twins, there wasn't a single feature they shared apart from the bluer-than-blue eyes that could easily melt the heart right out of any woman-and probably a few men. Watching them continue to beat the crap out of each other, she concluded she was going to like working with these boys.

Murphy twisted out of the headlock Connor had him in and pinned his twin to the floor, one knee in the middle of his back and his arms held in a vice-like grip. "Give it up, dumbshite," he ordered, out of breath and exhilarated.

"Fuck off, ye halfwit, it was a fuckin accident." He struggled determinedly but Murphy held him down until he was satisfied pride had been avenged, then ruffled his hair affectionately and released him. "Ye need ta lay off the candy, ye're puttin on too much weight. I could hardly breathe under yer fat arse."

"Pussy," Murphy said good-naturedly, getting to his feet. He picked his blankets up off the floor and demanded, "Is it safe ta sleep, or did ye plan on shavin me bald next?"

"Nah, ye're fine," Connor assured him, though he couldn't stop smiling. "Sorry 'bout that, Murph."

"An' that's a look of repentance, there," he replied, getting in bed and drawing the blankets over his head as if that would shield him from further attack.

"Good night," Renata said, her grin coloring her tone.

He gave a muffled reply and fell silent, and within minutes he was snoring again.

Connor got off the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. "Ye should at least try ta sleep," he told Renata. "We keep early hours, an' if ye wanna keep up, ye gotta get on our schedule."

"Wow," she remarked. "That sounded almost like an invitation to keep up with you."

"Take it any way ye like, but there it is."

Renata glanced at the couch, shaking her head slightly. "Sleep ain't happening on that thing any time soon," she said.

"An' what do ye propose instead?"

She shrugged, then stepped toward him. "Move over."

Connor paused, sure he had misunderstood her. "What?"

"There's plenty of room, I don't take up much space." She walked around to the other side of the bed and made to climb in, but Connor stretched himself out across it and barred her way. "What the fuck're ye doin?"

"Trying to get some sleep," she replied, as though stating the obvious.

"Sure, but get it elsewhere."

"Aw, come on," she urged. "You offered me a bed the first night."

"An' I woulda told Murphy ta sleep on the couch."

"What happened to that chivalrous bullshit? Good luck getting him to move now, unless you want to set him on fire again."

"So why don't ye crawl in with him, if it's that important?"

"Listen to that!" she said, nodding her head in the direction of Murphy's snores.

Connor still hesitated. The idea of sleeping with her next to him was interesting, if he was honest with himself, but perhaps taking things a little too far. She was only here by accident and she would be leaving in a few days. End of story.

She struck a defiant pose, folding her arms and cocking out her hip. "I won't molest you in your sleep," she bantered, though her eyes raked over his bare torso again.

"Never crossed my mind," he replied, a languid gaze traveling up her legs.

"And if you're thinking of molesting me, you can remember I stabbed the last guy who tried that."

"No one's unclear on that."

"So there's nothing to worry about."

He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, but he moved to let her into the bed. She scurried between the sheets, giving a hum of pleasure. "You got my side all nice and warm."

"Just be sure an' stay on your side," he warned her.

"Relax, hon," she said. "If I wanted to fuck you, I would have charmed you out of your skivvies by now."

Oh, he didn't doubt that...and as she settled in, tantalizingly near and her warmth inviting him nearer, he knew he wouldn't require much charming. Now _there_ was some crazy talk, and yet it was pure truth. Fucking hell, he was already hard and ready to explode, and she was only lying next to him! He turned onto his side, putting his back to her and doing his best to act natural. She was leaving in a few days and no doubt he and Murphy would be glad to get rid of her, so there was no fucking need for things to get out of hand in the meantime. They didn't need that deadweight. They had a job to do, and everything else would be a distraction.

Ignoring her breath on his skin and the ache in his cock, he closed his eyes and tried to get back to sleep.

**10/22 - revised. Because archerlove knew best!**


	11. Attractions and Distractions

**Hello readers, reviewers and lurkers! (That's right, I can see you guys too!) Here's some disappointing news: guess who can't make it to Full Moon Tattoo and Horror this year? Yep, you got it. No meet-and-greet for me. :( I thought it would take the sting out of my disappointment if I posted this...and you read it...and you left me a little comment on the way out. Enjoy!**

Murphy was still annoyed the next morning as he ran a hand through his hair and felt a chunk of it singed away, but his look was one of bemusement as he saw his brother still asleep, Renata curled up beside him in the bed.

He reached over and yanked the pillow out from under Connor's head and hit him with it. "Get up, dickhead," he said. "We got shit ta do." Connor stirred and opened his eyes, and Murphy laughed at him. "Tryin ta burn me alive an' sleepin with the house guest. What would Ma say?"

Connor shrugged and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sitting up. "Ye jealous?"

Murphy glanced at Renata. Her power of attraction was undeniable when she was in motion, but now that she was asleep, her hair tangled across the pillow and her lips parted slightly as she breathed, she was the definition of a hot mess. It was a look he associated with the sated fatigue of fierce, aggressive sex-a look he liked, truth be told.

"Yeah," he said, "a bit."

"Hey, she woulda been in with ye," Connor told him, "but ye were snorin too much."

Fuck. He looked at her again, studying every last detail, the curve of her face, the shape of her lips, the dip and swell of her body under the blankets. _Connor's_ fucking blankets. There was no doubt in his mind what _didn't_ happen, but still...Connor knew the feel of her laying so close, her warmth, her scent...he couldn't help it, he _was_ a little jealous, and he'd never been so irritated by his own snoring. His only consolation was in looking at Connor and seeing how poorly he had slept despite, or rather because of, his bedmate's attractions.

He shrugged and got out of bed, reaching for his clothes. Connor shook Renata awake. "Up," he urged her. "Early hours, remember?"

She groaned and stretched, tousling her hair before opening her eyes. Her bleary gaze traveled from one brother to the other, both of them half-naked and disheveled from sleep, and a lazy smile lit her features. "I could get used to waking up like this," she said.

"I bet ye could, ye fuckin hussy," Connor chided. "Get up an' get movin."

With a yawn, she got out of bed and went to the couch, where her clothes still lay in a pile with the discarded blanket. She pulled on her jeans and the brothers stopped and stared as she stood with her back to them and drew the sweatshirt over her head. God help them, she was moving again, and with the morning sunlight lending her skin a luminescence that only enhanced her earthy sensuality, she was mesmerizing.

She had a beautiful body, her arms lithe and supple, one smooth line from shoulder to fingertip, the slope of her back a gentle curve that invited soft caresses over skin that was a bare canvas but for the flower tattooed on her left shoulder. Even the mottled bruises that hadn't yet healed only made her look like a creature of the wild, something that would submit to no master, but rise up and strike back at any who tried to break her. She leaned down for the rest of her clothes and the curve of her breast was exposed, a teasing view that was at once too much and not enough. The silence was so absolute the brothers couldn't break it even to breathe and neither dared look at the other, for as long as she remained oblivious they were powerless to look away from her.

She slipped on her bra and reached to fasten it, saying, "As soon as you two are finished spying on me, you might want to get dressed."

They snapped back to reality in an instant. "Does it count as spyin if ye start takin off clothes in a crowded room an' someone notices?" Murphy asked, putting on a reasonably clean t-shirt.

"Well, I'm more used to doing it on a stage under a spotlight, where _everyone_ notices," she replied, tugging her sweater over her head.

Both groaned inwardly. Her display was hard enough to ignore without her antagonizing them further. "Maybe in the future," Connor said as he pulled on his torn, faded jeans, "ye might wanna consider girlish modesty before ye up an' start changin in present company."

"Modesty is for the bathroom," she replied, sitting on the couch and drawing a hairbrush out of her backpack. "Naked is just skin."

"Which might be what ye're used to," Connor told her, "but this isn't a fuckin strip club, ye follow?"

She paused mid-brushstroke and regarded them, still halfway through dressing. A wicked smile stole across her face and she asked, "You boys probably have girls back home, don't you?"

"Beg yer pardon?" Murphy asked.

"I mean, I know you're Catholic but I refuse to believe you're monks," she explained, "and a guy doesn't usually balk at the thought of a naked woman unless there's another woman, so..."

Murphy shook his head. "No, there's no women..."

"Unless they don't find the naked woman in question attractive."

"We don't-that's ta say, ye are, but we don't think of ye..."

She twisted a lock of hair around and around her finger, clearly enjoying herself. "You don't think I'm attractive?" she asked innocently.

"Didn't say that," Murphy replied, looking flustered. "I'm just sayin...Connor, fuckin help me out here."

Connor shot him an amused look. "I'm not sure I want involved," he told him. "Sounds like she's sexually harassin ye, Murph."

"An' ye're standin there lettin her get away with it!" Murphy burst out. "Not even defendin yer own brother!"

"It was yer idea ta open hearth an' home to a predator."

Renata cackled and lit a cigarette, leaning back and watching them finish dressing. She exhaled a thin stream of smoke and said, "I usually take my morning nicotine in the buff, but I'll skip that part so I don't offend my hosts, since they're so shy about female anatomy." They resisted the urge to respond, and she added, "And I'll postpone my special alone time while I'm at it, so I _really_ don't stir shit up."

"An' what the fuck's that s'posed ta mean?" Murphy couldn't help inquiring.

Her grin widened and she gave him a huge wink.

He shook his head in amazement. "Ye're off yer fuckin nut, woman."

"Then should I get on yours instead?"

Connor lifted his eyes heavenward and crossed himself.

* * *

Renata continued to be a handful, every bit as crazy as she had promised to be the night Connor and Murphy picked her up, though thankfully less volatile. She seemed to enjoy instigating mischief, always teasing them and trying to get a rise out of them with lewd comments and increasingly risque behavior, and after a time they both gave in to the temptation to return her banter, enjoying the flirtation as much as she was.

She was as good as her bribe and picked up the bill for a new toilet; she also took great pleasure in sending them out into the hallway when nature called. "Just let me know if there's any more maintenance to be done around here," she said after placing the order to replace the car window she had destroyed. "I've got the funds for improvements."

"Yeah, an' ye don't mind fixin shit up as long as ye're here," Connor teased.

She shrugged. "Well, as long as I'm here..."

It was late afternoon the following Tuesday and the gash on Renata's leg was nearly healed when the brothers started out of the apartment. "Roc called," Connor told Renata as he and Murphy pulled on their coats. "It's business, so we're just gonna pop out an' meet him."

"And I take it this really is no girls allowed?" she asked.

"More like it's just for Athos, Porthos, and Artemis," Murphy replied.

"Aramis," she corrected. "All right, then. If d'Artagnan's got to sit this one out, so be it."

"Are ye gonna be all right til we get back?" Connor asked.

"Are you kidding? I'll just head down to the store and restock on Twizzlers and smokes, then come back and spend some quality time with me, myself and I. Feel free to picture it if you want."

They were still smiling by the time they left.

They met Rocco at the diner to discuss another job he had lined up for them, another of Pappa Joe's favored henchmen. A _real_ hit man, remorseless and ruthless, and by the time Rocco finished his story he was staring blankly at the table, looking depressed.

"Don't worry, Roc," Connor assured him once he'd fallen silent. "We'll do this guy right, an' ye'll feel a lot better."

"We'll take care a Reg first, then we'll get this guy," Murphy said.

"Shouldn't be long," Connor added. "Renata's leg's almost healed up."

Rocco's eyes lifted from the table. "Is she coming with us?"

The brothers shrugged. "Haven't thought it out yet," Connor told him. "It's her score ta settle, innit, an' we can use the extra man."

"Yeah, but it's not a good idea," Rocco told him. "She's too fuckin close to the whole thing, it's too personal."

"Yers was personal, an' ye came with us."

He bobbed his head in acquiescence and said, "But I'm not no woman scorned. There's nothing as fuckin scary as a crazy bitch out for revenge, and this time I _am_ speaking from experience."

"Scorned a few women in yer day?" Murphy asked.

"Then ye oughta know we'll be scornin this one ta leave her behind," Connor added. "_You_ might be outta harm's way, but she's stayin at our place an' it's _our_ throats she'll be slittin in our sleep."

"I wouldn't put it past her," Murphy said conversationally. "She already pulled a gun once."

"Don't know why you haven't kicked her to the fuckin curb yet," Rocco went on. "She's not bad-looking and she's got a nice ass and all, but _there's_ a crazy bitch for you."

Connor shrugged. "She's not so bad."

"Really? Next you'll be telling me you're sleeping with her."

The brothers were passive. Renata had shared Connor's bed more than once and finally crept in with Murphy despite his snoring, but they weren't about to mention that. As far as Rocco knew, neither of them felt that kind of pull towards her, and they wanted to keep it that way.

"I thought this was your thing," Rocco pushed on, "snuffing all these fuckin psychos out here, and now you're blowing off the job for this broad?"

"No one's blowin anythin off," Connor replied. "We're just takin it slow for a bit so we don't draw too much attention to ourselves."

"It's got nothin ta do with her," Murphy continued. "She just happened ta fall inta the picture, is all."

"Yeah, no shit," Rocco agreed. "But how far into the picture is she going to get?"

There was a moment's pause before Connor answered, "She'll be gone once we take care a Reg."

Murphy cast a sidelong look at his brother, but didn't say a word. He held his tongue until they got back to their building, and as they headed toward the elevator he said, "Ye best be straight with me. Ye can bullshit a friend, but not family."

"What are ye talkin about?" Connor asked.

"I'm fuckin talkin about how ye were playin evasive back there. Ye said one thing, an' I got a different message."

"Did ye?" They stepped into the elevator and Connor pressed the button for the fifth floor. "An' what message was that?"

"When we do Reg an' the time comes for her ta go, ye're not gonna push it, are ye? If she leaves, it won't be because ye told her to."

"An' what the fuck would ye prefer? Ye sayin we should throw her out ta fend for herself?"

"Fuck no. I'm just tryin ta figure out where yer fuckin head's at."

"When it comes ta her, ye mean?"

"Aye."

Connor jammed his hands into his pockets and stared upwards. The rattle of the elevator moving up the shaft filled the car for a moment, then he said, "Where's this comin from, Murph? Do ye want her ta leave that bad?"

Murphy shrugged and looked down. "Not sayin that," he replied. "She's just...it's fuckin weird havin her around, ye know? She's..."

"A distraction?" Connor suggested.

Murphy nodded. "Aye. She is that."

"She's not that bad, though."

"Nah."

They didn't look at each other and kept their thoughts to themselves, weighing the consequences of, as Rocco put it, kicking Renata to the curb. She wasn't without means of survival, and she certainly wasn't helpless, so they could claim no excuse of charity in that regard. She was almost recovered from Reg's attack, so her health would no longer be an issue. Logically speaking, there was no reason for her to stay when it came time for her to leave.

But turning her out seemed repugnant, and both men were unwilling to confess to the feeling. It was in the way each had caught the other watching her in days past, the way they caught themselves thinking of her before they could help it, and the way it got harder and harder to sleep when she slept beside them, her presence in their beds sending fantasies spinning out of control in the darkness. She was intrusive and obscene, it felt like babysitting to have her around, and she had been little more than a nuisance thus far. And despite all this, there was a growing, ever-insistent wanting that refused to go away.

Perhaps even more troublesome was the attachment stirring beneath the want, soldered in place by taking her out of that fucking club and tempered by her unexpected companionship in the days since. Helping her leave that place had kindled a need to keep her from further trouble, seeing her wounds left an urge to protect her against more harm, and grim and sordid though her history might be, she somehow retained a part of who she must have been before. Those glimpses of the woman under the tough, sarcastic exterior were too irresistible an offering, too much of an enigma to dismiss so easily. Whatever it was about her that kept them wondering was a force too powerful to fight, a chain already too strong to sever. It was too late for them to save themselves in sending her on her way.

The elevator shuddered to a halt but they stood still, trying to reason their way out of the tangle they found themselves in. Their mission had to come first no matter what, and anything that called them away from it was intolerable. They had to keep their wits about them, especially where Renata was concerned. They couldn't let it get the best of them, not if it ate them alive.

They stepped out of the elevator and into the hallway and Connor sighed. "She's crazy as hell."

"Aye," Murphy agreed.

"An' obnoxious."

"Aye."

"Kinda skinny, too."

Murphy nodded and there was a long pause before he added, "She _does_ have a nice ass, though."

Connor smiled and laughed. "So," he said after a moment, "do we send her on her way?"

Murphy shrugged, unwilling to commit to either avenue. "I'm not sick of her yet. Are you?"

Connor shook his head, trying to appear indifferent. "Nah. Not really. So why give her the boot, then, right?"

"Aye."

Still unsure if they had settled one issue or avoided another, they opened the front door and entered the apartment.

* * *

Renata's indifference at being left behind wasn't entirely dishonest. She enjoyed time to herself as much as the next person. The only thing she hated about being alone was the damn fucking _quiet_.

Silence had been her enemy since she was nine years old, laying awake at night and listening to her mother crying down the hall and wondering why her dad left, if maybe she was a bad daughter and made him walk out on his family. As she grew older she stopped thinking about her father, and more about her grandfather, watching him slowly slip away as Alzheimer's robbed him of his memories and unable to keep from crying herself when he no longer recognized her.

Drinking helped. It was hard to think about all of that when her mind was blurred with alcohol, never mind that Mom and Nana were so disappointed in her for indulging in such a vice. She used a fake ID to buy the shit for months until she finally got caught and hauled before a judge, and that was enough to scare her straight for awhile. She even got into college with good grades, finally getting her act together and making something of herself. Then Nana died, and Renata fell again, landing herself with a loser like Kevin Reid and being thrown in with the likes of Reggie McDowell and Marcus Greene.

All of those bad memories came screaming back in the quiet, and whiskey wasn't always enough to silence them. She could remember the first time she took a Valium from her stash, how sweet it was to finally drown out that noise and revel in the quiet again. First Valium, then Percocet when she started needing something stronger, and before long she had to hide her private stock in her backpack, just in case the silence became too much. She wasn't an addict, per se, she was around enough of them at the Sin Bin to recognize the breed. The pills were merely a means to an end, just like the booze. The high was great, but it was only a bonus to forgetting.

She sat alone in the loft, alternating between cigarettes and candy with a few shots thrown in for good measure. And slowly, like a recurring nightmare, it came back, the noise insinuating itself through memory and thought...her father on the living room couch with her barely-legal babysitter, wrapped in an embrace no nine-year-old could understand...both of her parents shouting at each other and the pain in her mother's eyes as he packed his bags and left wife and daughter for good...her grandfather, the man she loved the most in the whole world, looking her straight in the eye and asking her name as if they had never met...

She drank faster, numb to the burn of the whiskey and her head spinning dangerously. She had to head it off before more came back...

Her mother and grandmother unable to stop her as she ran wild, spending high school in a haze of sex, booze and parties...a brief calm when she turned herself around, then Nana's sudden heart attack and her own relapse into bad decisions...bad decisions like Kevin Reid...the shouting match with her mother before she abandoned her for a boyfriend...

Another shot, followed by another. _Faster, faster..._

Getting out of jail in Boston to find Kevin had left her as her father had, as she had left her mother...the cold, black hole in her stomach as she walked into the Sin Bin asking for a job, growing blacker as she learned what was expected of her to work for Marcus...Reg watching her from across the room and playing pocket pool as she danced...surrounding herself with guys who only saw her as a piece of ass and their next hit...holy fuck, she had turned out worse than her father, hadn't she?

She leaned forward, reaching to dig another pack of smokes out of her backpack, when she froze. There it was with the rest of her belongings, a woolen scarf lovingly knitted by her Nana in hunter green, her Granddad's favorite color. It was one of her few remaining links to them and she couldn't imagine parting with it, but she could hardly look at it without remembering the worst thing, the absolute worst thing of all..._the woman was hollow-eyed and lost to the world, still in the grip of the heroin in her system, but she began to fight back, her struggles coming too late as her fate was sealed-_

Renata shoved the scarf aside and her hands shook as she forgot her search for cigarettes and instead sought her bag of pills. She picked out the Percocet with near frantic haste as she fought the memory that wouldn't leave her in peace, fracturing her mind into jagged shards with every recollection. She washed the pills down with more whiskey, and to hell with the surgeon general's warnings about taking meds with alcohol. That dumb fuck didn't have the same shit in his head as she did, and if he was right and she had major organ failure as a result, well, maybe it would finish her off and kill the noise for good.

Her lips twisted into a smile as the familiar sensation washed over her, like running to the edge of a cliff and leaping out into thin air. There was no noise, no silence, no memory stronger than the euphoria stealing her thoughts. It was better than sex, the way it carried her off into oblivion. Was she standing? Was she flying or falling? She couldn't tell, and it didn't matter. She was on cloud nine, and she didn't have a care in the world.

**OMG! What are the boys going to do when they walk in on THIS? Leave something for me before you go! Remember I need cheering up!**

**10/25 - revised. Thanks again, archerlove!**


	12. Cloud Nine

**A speedy update, can you believe it? Looks like these three wanted you to see what happens next! This is a pretty important chapter, so please please PLEASE let me know what you think.**

**A note on music before we get started. Knowing Renata as I do *wink* I'll bet she's listening to David Bowie's "Fame" when the boys walk in; his version of "Bring Me the Disco King" did a lot to inspire this story. As for what inspired Renata's character, check out "Beautiful" by Creed and "Black Balloon" by the Goo Goo Dolls. Good stuff, peeps! Enjoy!**

Connor and Murphy walked through the front door and stopped dead, staring at the scene before them. There were candy wrappers and cigarette butts scattered across the floor, the radio was playing an old David Bowie song...and Renata was dancing.

She always moved so easy, every motion executed so smoothly it looked choreographed. Now, she moved with abandon, as sinuous and mesmerizing as a serpent twisting in the sand. It was almost like witchcraft, the spell she cast, bending and spinning to the music, wreathed in the smoke from the lit cigarette in her hand. The sway of her hips, the arch of her back, and the dreamy ecstasy written across her face inspired lust in a heartbeat, and they could do nothing but stand, watch, and desire. They didn't have to look at each other to know it, not when each could feel it pulsing hot and strong in his own veins in perfect time with the beat, accelerating faster the longer he watched. It felt as indecent as walking in on that quality time she'd made mention of, something they shouldn't be watching, but damned if they could look away. The rock and sway of her body so closely resembled something a little more primal, more instinctive, and they hardened to see it; it seemed fantasies woven in daylight were even more potent than in darkness.

She raised the cigarette to her lips and inhaled, then threw her head back to release the smoke. She spun one more time and came to a halt, catching sight of them standing there, and they breathed again, though it was painful to have her stop dancing, physically, frustratingly, excruciatingly painful. Hazy delight passed across her face and she went to them, weaving in a manner that suggested she had been drinking while they were gone.

"You're back," she purred dreamily. "I was getting lonely without you." She walked over to Connor, wrapped her arms around his neck, and without warning she kissed him on the lips.

He followed her lead without thinking and pulled her closer before he had time to consider it, the hunger he felt mirrored by what she offered. She urged harder and deeper and dear God, he could taste the whiskey on her tongue. Stunned into base response, rational thought took a moment to catch up and with a twinge of regret-and a bit of guilt at the emotion-he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her away.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you glad to see me?" She leaned close again, grinding her hips into his; he hissed softly through his teeth and tightened his grip on her shoulders, torn between the dire need to keep her at arm's length and the maddening desire to let her keep leading him on. She smiled dangerously and he looked at Murphy, at a loss for what to do.

No use denying it, jealousy chased its ugly way through the need in Murphy's blood the moment Renata's lips met his brother's, and for a horrible instant he wanted to punch Connor straight in the face and steal her away from his grasp. The urge passed as his twin pushed her away and Murphy knew in a burst of intuition that it would have been no easier for Connor had she approached him first. And looking into his brother's eyes, he knew they shared confusion as well as desire. What the fuck was she doing?

Before he could dwell too long on it, she turned her attention to him. "Murph," she said on an exhale that sent another surge of blood precisely where he didn't need it, "you sweet, beautiful man...sorry we set you on fire." He might have seen it coming, but he couldn't have prevented the way she just melted into his arms and kissed him too, long and lingering and stirring a groan of want deep in his chest. She brushed at his hand, lacing her fingers through his, and drew him further into the room. "Come on," she said, "someone needs to dance with me."

"What the fuck's gotten inta you?" he asked. He glanced at Connor again, both of them still as lost as ever and trying to figure out her game. This was beyond her standard flirtation, and something about it felt wrong.

"I love this song," she sighed, beginning to dance again, twisting and pivoting and seemingly in a world of her own. She saw the two of them standing still and tried again. "Come on, Murph," she coaxed, "you'll dance with me, right?"

"Renata, what-"

"Or, let's try this..." She pushed him down onto Connor's bed, then straddled him and locked her arms around his neck. She breathed into his ear, the words low and seductive, "I think you'll appreciate this." With both brothers watching dumbfounded, that dangerous smile still on her lips, she began to rock and grind in what was unmistakably a lap dance.

Shock held them in paralysis for a moment, then Murphy recovered. Ignoring his body's desperate reaction to her, he caught her by the arms and tried to force her to be still. "What the fuck are ye doin?" he demanded.

"Ssh," she soothed, putting a finger to his lips and tracing their outline as she continued to move despite his hold on her. "Just sit tight and enjoy the ride."

"Renata," he protested, tightening his grip and staring hard into her eyes; they were glassy with more than just drink. A suspicion took shape in his mind and he asked, "What are ye on?"

"I'm on you now, sweetheart," she replied, leaning forward to kiss him one more time. Christ, if she would fucking stop doing that! It was hard to stay rational with her shoving her tongue down his throat!

She pushed him to lay back and Connor finally stepped in, unwilling to let this get any further out of control. "Enough," he ordered, putting a hand on her shoulder and pulling her away. "C'mon, Renata, cut it the fuck out."

She combed her hands through Murphy's hair but spoke to Connor. "You know I won't play favorites, honey, there's enough of me to go around. I've always had this fantasy of banging twins."

Murphy caught her wrists and turned her onto her back, pinning her to the bed. Her smile grew but he said sharply, "Save it. What the fuck did ye take?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied on a dreamy laugh, as if at a joke.

"Bullshit. _What pills did ye take?_"

"Aw, fuck, would you relax? It was just a couple Percs, no big deal."

Murphy traded dark looks with Connor, then got to his feet, running his hands through his hair in an effort to rid himself of the sensation of her combing fingers. Connor followed his brother's movements, feeling the same fever stirring in his blood and singing with greater intensity as he shifted his eyes to the woman draped across his bed. He paused for a moment at her lips, feeling their pressure again, and his body gave another throb as he devoured the rest of her in a sweeping glance. He envisioned her dancing again, then pictured the dance she could do under the sheets, limbs twining and bodies merging in a rush of skin and sweat. She looked at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking, but he reined in every further impulse. "Where the fuck is it?" he asked.

"Where's what?" she asked innocently.

"Woman, we're not fuckin around! We told ye ta fuckin get rid of it!"

"And I did," she replied, laughing again. "I just kept a little for myself, that's all."

He leaned over her, keeping his voice level and calm and searching her eyes through the high for _her_. "Renata," he said, taking her face between his hands, "where is it?"

She shrugged.

"I'm tryin ta be fair," he told her, "now ye better fuckin tell me where ye hid it."

"Either of you boys want a hit?" she offered. "We could have a lot of fun together."

The line had a rehearsed, habitual feel, like she had used it a thousand times before on her customers. Connor heaved a sigh, then abandoned her and snatched her backpack up off the floor. He cleared a place for it on the table and began to search through it, and within moments Murphy joined him.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Renata demanded. She sat up on the bed and watched them, looking disbelieving. "What do you think you're doing?"

Neither of them answered her, still rummaging through the bag.

She stood and made her way to the table, wobbling slightly on unsteady legs. She latched onto the backpack and tried to pull it away, but she couldn't match their combined strength, especially in her condition. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" she asked, her voice rising. "You can't just start going through my shit like you've got a fucking right-"

"We fuckin said we're not havin it here," Connor shot back. "If ye wanna pull this shit, ye gotta go."

"So I took a few pills, big fucking deal! Just lighten up, God _damn!_"

"Watch yer fuckin mouth!"

"Wait a sec," Murphy said, groping inside the backpack. "I think I got it..." He withdrew his hand, pulling the bag of pills out of the hidden pocket.

She lunged at him, reaching for the bag. He moved to dodge her but she tackled him, knocking him backward, and they landed on the bed, mattress springs groaning and creaking beneath them as she made a grab for the pills. He tossed them to Connor and she rounded on him next, leaving Murphy where he lay and chasing after the pills like a cat after a mouse. Murphy rolled off the bed and signaled to Connor, who fended her off and passed the bag back to him. She whirled around to Murphy again and Connor grabbed her from behind, throwing an arm around her to restrain her.

"Get the fuck off me!" she yelled, trying vainly to throw him off.

"Christ, woman, fuckin get a hold a yerself!" he yelled back, barely keeping her under control. "Murph, flush it!"

Murphy started toward the new toilet and Renata freed her arms enough to ram an elbow into Connor's ribs, then pushed her way out of his grasp. She sprang from his bed to Murphy's, then launched herself onto Murphy's back. He staggered under her unexpected weight and she wrestled the pills away from him before sliding off and darting to the opposite side of the room, passing under the shower; she slipped on the slick floor and hit the ground with a smack.

The brothers were on her in an instant. Murphy pinned her arms and held her with a knee in the middle of her back, and Connor pried the pills out of her hand again. All of them were out of breath from the tussle, but he seemed particularly winded after Renata's assault. "Now then," he said, taking great gulps of air, "can we calm ourselves an' talk civil?"

The fight went out of her as fast as it hit. She rested her head against the cool concrete; a sheen of sweat covered her skin, but whether it was from the extertion or a side effect of the drugs was hard to tell. "Murphy, you're killing me here."

He removed his knee but didn't release her yet. "Are ye gonna behave?" he asked.

"Sure. What the hell."

He let her go but she didn't get up, still laying prostrate and not meeting their eyes. Connor waited until he was breathing properly again, then said, "Ye got two options, Renata. Ye can get rid a the drugs, an' I mean _really_ get rid of them this time, an' stay here awhile longer, or ye can pack yer shit an' get the fuck out. We'll still take care a Reg for ye, but ye won't be welcome here as long as ye keep this shit. Clear enough for ye?"

She lay still, staring blankly into space.

"Renata?"

"I heard you," she replied.

"Good, just checkin. An' how does it sit with ye?"

She made a noncommittal noise. "It's just a few pills."

"An' we told ye, it's the only fuckin rule," Murphy said. "Is it really worth the fuss?"

"Depends. I just feel like getting trashed every now and then to take my mind off shit, you know what I mean? I have to get out of my head once in a while."

"Sounds like a junkie excuse ta me," he said to Connor.

She stiffened. "Fuck you, Murphy. I'm not a fucking junkie."

"Well, she's feelin more like herself if she's getting mouthy again," Connor remarked.

"MacManus, I've not yet _begun_ to get mouthy with you," she told him, though the tough words were at odds with her body language, which was significantly less than energetic.

"Then it should be easy ta settle this, since ye're not a junkie, aye?" he asked.

She closed her eyes, disgusted with herself and annoyed at their interference.

Connor leaned in close, offering her the bag of pills. "How 'bout it, sweetheart?" he asked. "Do ye wanna keep these?"

Renata looked from the pills to his face and back again. The lure was strong in both directions...yes, she could argue, the pills _were_ worth the fuss when the clamor in her head got too intense, but keeping that outlet meant giving up her place in the apartment, and she wasn't sure she wanted to do that. She wanted to be there for Reg's last moments on earth, and besides that, she had gotten rather comfortable with her new environment. Taking her eyes from the pills, she looked between Connor and Murphy. No, she didn't want to leave yet, not when it looked like her fortunes had finally changed for the better. They were a nice relief from what life had become, a change of fortune, scenery, purpose, and feeling. After so long stuck between guilt, rage, self-pity, and the drug-induced indifference that had become a more frequent companion as of late, it was hard to walk away from what she was feeling now, something as exhilarating as any high. She wanted to hang onto it and see where it led.

But the silence, and the noise in her head that accompanied it...if they ever demanded an explanation, what the fuck then? How could she avoid the sin without confession of the motive and the very thing she was desperate to forget?

"Can I ask a favor?" she queried.

"What's that?" Murphy replied.

She looked away from them again, staring straight ahead without seeing. "Don't leave me by myself," she said. "Can you do that?"

The brothers shared a look, pondering her request, and it was Connor who spoke. "Does that mean ye wanna stay?"

She nodded slightly. "If you'll let me. Just don't leave me alone with myself again."

"We can't be yer crutch ta keep from usin," he warned her.

"I know," she said. "I just...I need a chance to get my head straight. Withdrawals are going to be a bitch."

"So ye need a couple a nurse maids?" Murphy asked, and it was hard to tell if he was laughing at the idea or expressing his dread.

"Just a little moral support," she replied. "There's generally beer involved, if that helps...how about it?"

Connor returned her nod. "I think we can work somethin out. What do ye think, Murph?"

Murphy shrugged, beginning to smile. "Dunno," he said. "I'm still reelin from the fuckin lap dance."

Renata closed her eyes and chuckled. "Sorry about that."

"No ye're not." He took the pills from Connor and got to his feet; she heard his footsteps across the room, then the sound of running water as he flushed the meds down the toilet. Next thing she knew, two pairs of hands were helping her to her feet, steadying her as they got her off the floor. She was grateful for the assistance, else if left to move on her own volition, she might have stayed on the floor all night.

"Well, what do you know, Murph?" she asked as her head spun drunkenly. "Looks like I'm reeling too."

"Yeah, I bet ye are," he replied. "We oughta get ye ta bed."

"Only if you come with me, you sexy thing."

He laughed. "She just doesn't quit, does she?" he asked his brother.

"One more favor," she said as they steered her across the apartment. "Would you both just have a seat with me on your piece of shit couch? Just to show there's no hard feelings?"

"Who's got hard feelings, Connor?"

"Not me," he answered.

"Even after a hit to the gut?" she asked.

"The last angry woman I encountered hit me in the nuts," he replied, "so anythin north a there's a fuckin improvement."

"Aw..." She leaned her head against his shoulder in sympathy. "Poor guy."

The three of them sat on the couch and Renata leaned in close to Connor before pulling Murphy closer to her. "Come on," she said, guiding his head to rest against her shoulder. "Let's make a Renata sandwich."

Connor draped an arm around her shoulders and thumped Murphy on the head for the hell of it. Murphy returned the hit, then they all settled down, the silence falling between them rather heavy after the night's events.

"Feel free to talk amongst yourselves," she told them, closing her eyes again. "Plot a murder, say a prayer, speak in tongues..."

"Is there an innuendo comin after that?" Murphy asked.

"Not right now, baby, I'm not in the harrassing mood."

"Thanks for lettin us know."

There was another moment of unbroken stillness, and she said at last, "Look, boys, I took the Percocet because it was too quiet in here, so somebody needs to start making some noise real fast."

They were still for another heartbeat, then Connor asked in Latin, "_What are you thinking?_"

"_About all this?_" Murphy replied.

"_Yes._"

Renata gave a drowsy sigh. "That's nice, guys, but it's antiquated. Anything else in your repertoire?"

Murphy shrugged, then switched to French. "_Not sure. It's a business trying to think straight with a hard on._"

She gave a hum of pleasure, relishing the words while oblivious to their meaning. "That's better..."

Connor laughed at both of them. "_Take it easy, brother. You got to respect women, remember?_"

"_I remember._"

"_Are you all right?_"

Murphy stayed quiet, looking for the right words.

"_Murph?_"

"_Not sure about that either,_" he finally replied, transferring to Gaelic without thought as he tried to process everything. "_I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight after all this. She's a fucking_ junkie, _Connor._"

Connor shifted slightly on the couch, readjusting her on his shoulder. "_It looks bad, all right_," he agreed, changing languages as well. "_She's giving it up for now, at least._"

"_As long as we keep an eye on her_," Murphy pointed out. "_We've got our own job to do without running a fucking rehab center in here_."

"_She asked for a chance, Murph. I think we can at least give her that much._"

"_But can we afford to?_"

"_What do you mean?_"

Silence. Then, "_You know exactly what I mean_." She was still dancing in his mind, still kissing him, and he swore he could still feel her fingers running through his hair. He scratched agitatedly at his scalp to banish the feeling, but it was harder when he pictured her astride him again-_everything _got harder when he pictured that.

Would she have done that if she wasn't on pills? It added another scene in a head already crowded with thoughts of her and everything he wanted when he looked at her, everything he _couldn't afford_ to want. He wanted her to dance like that until he couldn't stand another second wanting her, then pin her to the bed and fuck her until she screamed his name. He wanted to meld her flesh with his in euphoric, indecent alchemy, to be so drunk on her that he never sobered again. Yet he had to wonder at the cost, knowing somehow that one taste of her would never be enough to satisfy. If his experience of her thus far was anything to go by, then she would be a drug in her own right, just as dangerous and addicting. And with his and Connor's mission to think of, it was even worse. Something that dangerous could get them killed.

Connor watched the play of emotions on his brother's face, confident he interpreted the thoughts behind them correctly, and he knew how it felt, unable to deny the envy that had stirred within him to watch her with Murphy. There was more than one MacManus that couldn't banish the memory of her dancing, and his gut twisted when he remembered her and his twin wrapped together on his bed and the picture his mind formed even though his eyes showed him otherwise. That feeling as much as anything prompted him to put a stop to her behavior, and he despised it. No woman had ever come between the MacManus brothers before, and for it to come to that now was unconscionable. He recalled her promise not to play favorites and his confusion only deepened. What game was she playing? Was that the pills talking, or was she in earnest? And what did that mean for him and Murphy?

Who was she, anyway, this woman they had invited into their home and wanted in their beds? She was a wild thing, almost out of control, and trying to predict her was like trying to predict the path of a hurricane. She could prove equally disastrous as well, of that he had no doubt. He glanced down at her; the Percocet and the alcohol had finally put her to sleep. Sitting on their piece of shit couch with her dead weight on his shoulder slowly numbing his arm didn't sound like an ideal way to spend the night, but he didn't want to move yet. He watched her as she slept, then asked, "What have we got ourselves into, Murph?"

Murphy didn't answer, setting a hand on her thigh. Connor rested his cheek against the crown of her head, and they stayed that way for hours, long into the night until the sun came up.

**Remember, important chapter and lots of pressure to get it right! Show your love with a review! :)**


	13. Sutures

**Back again! Since you last heard from me, things have been not so great on my end. I've had issues with depression for several years and it's been a major step backwards lately, so I could really use some prayers, happy thoughts, good vibes, whatever you want to send my way. As for the chapter, this one is a little more introspective than the past. Consider it a breather from last update! By my count, we're exactly one chapter away from the kind of shoot-em-up action our boys love, and not that much farther from the down-and-dirty action _we_ love. Good news, isn't it? Enjoy!**

Judging by the light filling the apartment, Renata guessed it was around midmorning by the time she woke up. Her binge from the night before had relaxed her enough that sleeping on the couch wasn't as uncomfortable as she remembered, even with two bedmates.

They were both asleep, Connor with his arm still around her shoulders and Murphy with his head resting in her lap. She nestled closer to Connor and combed her fingers through Murphy's hair again. She was still dazed coming off the Percocet and there was a hangover headache approaching, but she had some thinking to do. The sooner she got her head on straight, the better.

The first thought that broke clear of the melee was of the pills she'd allowed Murphy to dispose of. She still didn't consider herself a junkie, but she wasn't deluded. She could see she was laying the foundations of addiction with her escape method, and the thought scared the shit out of her. She wanted to get out of her own head, not lose herself in the process. She had seen enough of that in the Sin Bin-guys so desperate for a hit they tore the club apart until they scored or the bouncers threw them out, girls strung out and more than willing to trade sex for a fix, and the hollowed-out shells of human beings men and women alike became, lost on whatever poison they had sold themselves to, exchanging their souls for the high. For God's sake, she had _seen_ the track marks on some of Benny's girls, and she still hadn't forgotten the sight of that filthy needle going into Stacy's arm-

No. She didn't want that. She wanted something else instead. She had sacrificed her stash for the sake of a feeling, inspired by the two men asleep on either side of her, and it was probably a good idea to examine that feeling sooner rather than later. In simple terms, it was convenient to shack up with them until Reg got what was coming to him, but what about after? She liked them, and it didn't hurt that they were two of the sexiest sons of bitches she had ever laid eyes on. She was always a sucker for bad boys, but their religious proclivity was different enough from what she usually went for that she felt safe saying they weren't the kind of assholes she was getting used to. It was only in her nature to flirt and tease as she had done, and so far they didn't seem to think she meant anything more by it.

Well, maybe not after last night...they would have to be pretty fucking dense not to take _that_ hint. She was intoxicated enough to go beyond whatever line she hadn't crossed, goading them into response. And yes, they were both ready to plow her to kingdom come. She knew that before last night, catching the way they stared at her as if they would swallow her with their eyes alone. Between the whiskey and the pills it had seemed like a good idea to try and break their self-restraint, but they were too damn noble to give in while she was under the influence. No doubt they would have considered it "taking advantage;" she didn't know whether it made her like them more, or just more annoyed with them.

Come to think of it, they weren't too impressed to find her under the influence in the first place...she would definitely have to try again, sober. After they finished Reg seemed like a good time to her.

She felt a chill thinking of Reg, and of Marcus. This was her way out of their world of vice and corruption, a world Connor and Murphy wanted to destroy like they were real-life superheroes. She had plenty enough cause to know that her former employer made one hell of a villain, but it wouldn't be long before his second-in-command, at least, went on to atone for his sins.

_And what of your own sins, Renata Malone?_

The thought made her insides twist into knots. She had been a part of that world, and sending key players to their just reward couldn't erase it. The things she had seen and done were hers to cherish forever, the ghosts would always follow in her shadow.

She unconsciously tightened her grip on Murphy's hair and he began to stir, lifting a hand to her fingers. She smiled down at him, half in greeting and half in relief at the escape from the road her mind was taking. "Good morning."

"Is it?" he asked, slowly sitting upright and groaning as his body, stiff from sleeping in such an awkward pose, stretched and straightened. "Fuckin Christ..."

"Lord's name, Murph," Connor muttered as he awoke, massaging the crick in his neck. "Fuckin hell, woman, next time we're doin this, we'll be in a bed."

Renata grinned. "I can hardly wait." She got to her feet, leaving them sitting, and fetched her switchblade off the table among the scattered contents of her backpack. "Moment of truth, gentlemen. I'm taking my pants off."

That certainly got their attention, as she knew it would. Sleep and sore muscles were forgotten as they both sat up a little straighter and gazed a little more intently. "Why the fuck're ye doin that?" Connor asked.

She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. "I have to take the stitches out," she replied. "You thought I had something else in mind? What kind of lady do you think I am?"

"First mistake was thinkin _I_ think ye're a fuckin lady."

"Then I take back what I said about you being a gentleman. I was just giving you boys a heads-up before I start taking off my clothes. Wouldn't want you to bust a nut or anything." They each mumbled something unintelligible and she added slyly, "You know, you can step outside if you think it might overwhelm your sensibilities."

To her amusement, they both demurred. "Ye might need an extra pair a hands," Murphy told her, and Connor nodded casually.

She smiled slightly and unfastened her jeans. They watched unblinking as she drew them down over her hips and past the bandage on her thigh; she paused, then said, "What the hell, might as well go all the way," then she stepped out of the jeans and nudged them aside with her foot, seating herself in one of the chairs at the table. Just her shirt and panties, and Connor and Murphy raced hungry eyes all over her. She let them finish mentally undressing her as she removed the bandage, taking a few appreciative looks of her own at them through her eyelashes. It didn't seem fair, even to her, to keep playing with them like this, especially after all she'd done the night before, but damned if she was going to back off now. She peeled off the medical tape holding the gauze in place, carefully angling her legs so they had a good view of as much skin as possible. She had occasion before now to note that Connor seemed drawn to her legs, and she'd caught Murphy staring at her chest often enough to know to lean forward so he could look down her shirt. Another sly glance told her they had noticed what she was doing-and could guess why she was doing it.

Once the bandage was out of the way she opened the switchblade and examined the stitches, looking for the best point to begin. "Damn, that's pretty gnarly," she remarked, taking in the sutures and the places where the skin had knit together. She lay the blade against her leg, trying to angle the point of the knife at the thread. "This is going to be awkward."

"Here," Murphy volunteered, holding his hand out for the knife, "let me. Ye're like ta cut yerself open again."

"Well, thanks, Murph," she said, handing him the knife. "It's a real favor."

"Nah, my pleasure," he assured her, kneeling by her chair and laying his hand next to the wound, raising the knife to the stitches. "Sit still for me."

"Cut me and I'll punch you in that pretty face," she told him, and he smiled before catching a stitch with the point of the knife and slicing through it. She kept her eyes riveted on her leg, watching as he carefully picked at the thread. "Holy shit, that feels weird..."

"Doesn't hurt, does it?" he asked.

"Not exactly, but it-" She broke off with a gasp and a curse, her arm shooting out and her fingers latching in a death grip on his shoulder. "There's a knot there, jackass!"

Connor rushed over and took the knife from his brother. "What the fuck, Murph?" he asked. "Talk about a fuckin sadist."

"I got it under control," Murphy replied, taking the knife back and cutting the knot out of the thread. Renata reached for Connor's hand and he grasped hers, holding on tight as Murphy finished taking the stitches out. He studied his handiwork when he was through, like an artist assessing his newest painting. "Not bad..."

Connor and Renata leaned close to see for themselves, taking in the livid scar and the holes the stitches had left behind, oozing tiny red droplets of blood. "It's ugly," she lamented.

"Well, give it a chance ta finish healin up," Connor told her. "A week from now, ye won't even notice it."

"Yeah, an' think of it like this," Murphy chimed in, snatching a clean napkin off the table and gently wiping the blood away, "scars are tattoos with better stories."

"You think so?" She caught their hands, studying the words inked into the skin and murmuring the Latin softly. "_Veritas...aequitas_...I know this one," she said aloud, running her thumb across Connor's tattoo, "but what does this one mean?" She bent her head closer to Murphy's hand, a thoughtful look on her face.

"Justice," he answered.

She nodded. "Interesting." Her eyes moved up the Celtic crosses on their forearms to the Virgin Mary tattooed on their necks. "You boys sure are proud of your faith."

"Of course," Connor replied. "Half the country back home is bein persecuted for it."

"Are you pretty close with the Almighty?"

"We'd like ta think so."

She reached for her cigarettes and cast a devious glance to where they still knelt. "There's only one reason you need to be on your knees for me," she informed them. "Either get busy, or get off the floor."

They got up and sat with her, and she didn't bother to hide her disappointment. "Fine, be like that."

"To everything there is a season, an' a time for every purpose," Murphy recited.

"Wait, I know that one too. Ecclesiasties."

"How do ye know that one?"

"I went to church as a young un, thank you very much...so does that mean we'll pick this back up when the time is right, or some shit?"

Murphy took the pack from her hand, tapped out a cigarette and handed it to her. "It's too early ta start this shit, Renata, an' ye're too fuckin wasted ta discuss it."

"But what if I wasn't?"

"But ye are," Connor cut in, speaking firmly enough even she could sense there was no point in arguing. She leaned back in her chair, toying with the unlit cigarette in her fingers, then said, "I guess I _am_ sorry about last night. You guys were nice enough to open your door to me, and I completely disrespected you."

"Well, old habits an' that shit," Connor replied. "Let's just take it one day at a time, aye?"

"Sure, but I'm sorry for the other shit, too. I mean, it's bad manners to make out with one's hosts, or so I'm told."

"Forget it," Murphy assured her. "Ye weren't thinkin clearly, an' we get it."

"But if I _was_ thinking clearly-"

"Renata-"

"I would have done it eventually anyway. Come on, boys, you're both fucking gorgeous."

"Aw, fuck, now I'm blushin," Connor joked.

"I'm serious," she said. "If we were free to go there, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"Do ye always offer ta hop inta bed with yer hosts?" Murphy asked, his tone light enough she didn't take offense.

"No, I don't," she replied. "I'm just saying, if we had met under different circumstances, I would have loved to see what we could make happen." They both looked pensive and slightly broody at her words, and she added, "And you know, there wouldn't have to be any jealousy or shit like that. I'm not interested in playing favorites and I wouldn't want to come between you guys...well, not like that, anyway." She fell silent again to let them ponder her words then lit her cigarette and sat smoking for several minutes, rubbing at her tired eyes. She could still see her green scarf out of the corner of her eye, spilling halfway out of her backpack, and though she tried to ignore it her eyes flicked back to it every few minutes. "So what now?" she asked. "Do we call Rocco, tell him the game is on?"

"It's not a fuckin game," Connor told her, glad for the change of subject. "When this shit happens, it's gonna be real."

"If ye come with us, ye won't be standin on the sidelines," Murphy added. He shared a sense of relief that the conversation had shifted to safer waters than the idea of pursuing any kind of...well, anything, with Renata. "Ye gotta be sure ye can do the job."

"You mean sure I can kill a man," she replied.

"Aye."

She scoffed. "I've been waiting to kill that motherfucker for years."

"Ye do understand," Connor informed her, "we're not just settlin yer vendetta here. There's a bigger picture in all this."

"Yeah, I get it, truth and justice, rid the world of evil, all that jazz. You say it like it's a mission from God."

"Ye never know. We're pretty close with the Almighty."

She smiled ironically and flicked ash off the end of her cigarette, finally tucking the scarf into her backpack and out of sight. "You might put in a good word for me, then. I'm pretty sure I've got a cozy little spot in Hell waiting on me." She puffed on the cig a little more, then asked, "When are we doing this?"

Connor and Murphy looked at each other in that way that made her sure they were reading each other's thoughts. "Tomorrow," Connor promised. "How about a night ta recover from the last one?"

"What's the matter, you didn't care for sleeping on the couch?" she teased. "Probably for the best, anyway. I can't shoot straight with a hangover."

"Ye say that like ye tried before," Murphy remarked.

"Just the one time."

"How're withdrawals gonna affect yer aim?" Connor asked.

"They won't. I might run a fever tonight and I'll probably puke my guts out between now and lunchtime tomorrow, but I'll be functional." As if in deliberate contradiction to her words, her head throbbed in a headache that felt like a rubber mallet hitting her between the eyes. That at least was an easy fix. She took a plastic bottle out of her backpack; "It's just aspirin, I swear," she told them, showing them the pills before swallowing a few dry. She then held her cigarette in her lips and rose from her chair, crossing to the refridgerator. Connor and Murphy followed her with their eyes as she opened the door, brought out three cans of Guinness and walked back to the table. She paused as she saw them staring at her and struck a saucy pose, shifting her weight onto one leg and thrusting out her hip. "Now boys, I know it's a ten," she said, "but you've got to quit staring at my ass. It just creates a lot of sexual tension."

"Can't help it when ye put it on display like that," Connor replied.

"Hm. Go figure. Now tell me..." She revolved slowly on the spot, giving them a three-hundred sixty degree view. "What do you think?"

"I think ye better sit down," Murphy told her. "Connor's blushin like a schoolboy."

"And Murph's 'bout as excited as a pubescent teenager watchin _Baywatch_," Connor retorted.

She flashed them her wolfish grin and sat back down, passing the beer around. "I only know one cure for a hangover," she said, cracking hers open and taking a long drink. She sighed with relief when she finally set the can back down, already half empty. Whether it was really working or just a case of mind over matter, she felt better already.

"Fascinatin logic," Connor said, opening his own beer. "Answer an excess a booze with even more booze."

"It's how I used to transition off the Percs," she explained. "And it at least made detox a little bearable." She was quiet as the three of them drank for several minutes, then said, "Can I ask you guys a question?" They shrugged, so she went on. "How did you get started on this vigilante thing to begin with?"

Connor took one of her cigarettes and reached for her lighter. "How's yer faith been standin lately?" he asked.

"Haven't given it much thought," she replied, watching him light up. "We've got sort of a live-and-let-live understanding going on."

"Well, when ye can answer my question, we'll answer yers." After another pause he asked, "Ye thought about what ye're gonna do after this?"

"I'm going to make up for lost time, for one thing," she answered. "I've been a pill-peddling pole dancer for too long, I'm ready to get out of that shit. I can finally cry when I'm sad, get pissed when I'm angry, and fuck when I'm horny. It's going to be epic."

"Ye think so?"

"Oh yeah. You won't want to miss this for anything."

They didn't even bother to look at each other. They both heard the invitation there, and if she kept it up...best not to think about things like that.

She lifted her arms over her head and stretched, adding, "I've got some sleeping off to do before it gets ugly. And you two need to recover from your couch."

She spoke casually, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes that made the brothers pause for reflection. "I think it's a set-up," Murphy announced.

"I think ye're onta somethin," Connor replied.

"Sexual harassment, ye reckon?"

"Fuckin A right."

"Hey, it was your idea," she told them. "No recanting. But I think we _can_ make this more comfortable."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She took a last drag from her cigarette and left the butt in the ashtray on the table, then stood again and made her way to the beds. She cleared the space between them of discarded clothes and moved the night stand out of the way, then went to the far side of Murphy's bed and pushed it against Connor's, closing the gap between them. She straightened up when she was done and smiled. "Ta-da."

They remained sitting as she adjusted the blankets so they overlapped across the two beds, then climbed in. "Hop in when you feel like it," she said, fluffing Murphy's extra pillow and tucking it under her head. She lay staring at the ceiling for a moment, then leaned up on one elbow. "Tell me real quick," she said, "am I _really_ in for tomorrow?"

Connor exhaled and replied, "It's serious shit, Renata. We can't afford ta have cowards that can't do what's required taggin along. Ye can't hesitate ta pull the trigger when ye're judge an' jury. Ye gotta know _before_ the time comes that ye can handle yerself when ye need to. All right?"

She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, deep in thought. "We're sending lowlifes to their just reward, right? Smiting the wicked with the fiery sword, that's got to count for something."

They nodded.

She took a deep breath and sighed. "All right. I can do it."

"Ye sure?" Connor asked.

"No one's gonna think less a ye if ye can't," Murphy assured her.

"No, I can do this," she said, sounding more sure of herself. "Count me in."

They nodded again. "I'll call Roc an' let him know," Connor said, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray. "Get some rest while ye can."

She lay back again and resumed staring at the ceiling. They were ridding the world of evil, and that _had_ to count for something. She wasn't the praying type, but considering the marks she had against her she hoped to God it did. Her stomach clenched at the memory trying to creep back in, then twisted ominously, and she rolled out of bed in a dash for the toilet. It seemed detox would take less time than she thought.

**Show your love, my darlings. Leave something in the box on your way out. :)**


	14. Hell Hath No Fury

**Hello all! Sorry for the delay, but this one is nice and long to make up for it!**

** Since the last update, I've been bombarded with happy thoughts and the like; imagine a pillow fight, and getting walloped over and over with soft, fluffy, comfy things stuffed with sweet dreams. So I want to say first off, thanks! The love and support in your reviews and PM's is a silver lining in itself. Hugs to all of you! xoxo**

**A special salute to xxInspireMexx for her feedback this weekend, and for cracking the whip! **

**Chapter notes: thank my brother the firearms enthusiast for his work as technical consultant on this update. You should also know that an insane amount of effort went into this one! Choreographing fight scenes with so many characters is no walk in the park! You might find it amusing to learn I ended up doing a one-woman pantomime for all of this, testing it all out and literally kicking my own butt just to get this right. If I failed after all, don't tell me because it will break my heart. LOL Fans of Stieg Larsson will notice a tribute to Lisbeth Salander, the ultimate bad ass fictional female. Finally, the soundtrack for this chapter includes "Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons, "Dance With the Devil" by Breaking Benjamin, and "Renegade" by Styx. And as always, reviews are welcomed and much appreciated. Enjoy! :)**

"My place is more convenient to where we're headed," Rocco pointed out.

"An' as long as Pappa Joe's still tryin ta get rid of ye, it's no good," Connor replied. "If he sends someone ta knock on yer door, I'd rather it no one's home ta answer."

Rocco rolled his eyes with a sigh and shrugged. "Just trying to contribute, maybe save a little gas money."

"I'd rather spend the money than get my ass shot off," Murphy asserted.

It was bright and early the next morning, and the three men and Renata were gathered in the MacManuses apartment in preparation for the hit on Reg McDowell. An arsenal lay spread across the beds: handguns, magazines, silencers, Murphy's and Renata's knives, and what was left of Connor's rope. The brothers were dealing out arms like playing cards, separating ammo into piles, fitting silencers into muzzles, and assigning weapons to each person.

Renata picked up her knife and opened it, testing the keenness of the blade with her thumb. "Do I get a holster?" she inquired conversationally.

"If ye suppose ye need one," Connor told her, setting two duffel bags on the bed.

"And what do we need rope for?"

"Don't get him started on that shit," Murphy implored. He handed her two guns and several magazines. "Take these an' keep em close."

She took the guns and studied them, testing their weight and gazing down the sights. "I like this one," she said, setting a Glock beside her backpack, "but I'm not taking that." She offered the second gun, a Ruger, back to Murphy.

He didn't take it, looking blank. "Why the fuck not?" he asked.

"It's the one you just bought a few days ago."

"And?"

"You haven't serviced it since then. There could be anything wrong with it."

"C'mon, we fuckin _know _the guy who sold it to us. He doesn't deal faulty shit."

"Maybe not, but who knows how long it's been sitting around collecting dust and other shit. If there's the slightest bit of grit in any moving parts, it's going to jam and it'll be fucking useless."

"How did you become an expert?" Rocco demanded.

"My granddad was a gun collector, so I've handled quite a few in my time," she retorted, looking irritable. Her body had recognized it wasn't getting the drugs it craved anytime soon, and chosen to launch a violent protest. She had indeed run a fever most of the previous night and spent a good part of that time kneeling beside the toilet, vomitting until she felt turned inside out. Connor and Murphy had offered plenty of moral support, keeping her supplied with the beer she'd promised and water to keep her from getting dehydrated, and aspirin once she could keep it down. Her fever broke after several hours and she had finally stopped puking, but she looked tired and was still very moody...and certainly not in the spirits to play nicely with their loud, brash friend. "I've been around these since I was a kid, and I know what the fuck I'm talking about. So shut your fucking trap and give me another gun."

"What, you want me to fork over one of mine? Fuck that! You got two of your own!"

"Look, dipshit, we're about to go in hot, and I'm not going in with a weapon I can't rely on-"

"Then don't fucking go in at all!"

"Fuck you! I'm not staying behind!"

"All right, shut it!" Connor broke in. "Both of ye grow the fuck up right fuckin now, or ye _both _stay behind, ye got it?"

They both fell silent, looking sullen, then Renata wheedled, "Come on, Connor, we've got to have each other's backs in there, and I can't do that with this gun."

"There's nothin wrong with the gun," he told her, "an' we don't have any ta spare. So take what ye got, or don't go."

Looking very perturbed, Renata took the Ruger and put it in her backpack along with the Glock. She was stowing the magazines and her knife when Connor leaned over, reached into the bag, and took out the bottle of Jack Daniel's; by now it was nearly empty. "This stays here," he informed her. "If ye're gonna do this, ye're gonna do it sober."

"Fine. Whatever."

Murphy loaded the duffel bags and zipped them shut. "We're all set," he announced. They gathered their things and put on their coats, and before walking out the door, Connor and Murphy paused to put on their rosaries. They were going to do God's work.

* * *

Their first stop wasn't Reg's house, but St. Augustine's church. The brothers went inside while Renata and Rocco sat in the car, walking up the steps with calm, quiet purpose and disappearing through the front doors.

Renata sighed and leaned back in her seat, trying to ignore the jittery, _ needy_ feeling still rampant in her system, then glanced at Rocco sitting shotgun. "You don't like me much, do you?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

She shrugged. "Have it your way. I don't like you either."

"What's wrong with me?" he demanded.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Fine, then. Since you asked, you're a smart-mouthed bitch and I don't like your attitude."

She laughed. "That's all? Come on, Rocco, I thought it was going to be something serious! That's just who I am."

"And I don't trust you any fuckin farther than I can throw you, either," he added.

"Oh, now that hurts. Have I ever given you a reason not to?"

"You tried to shoot me! With my own fuckin gun!"

She waved that off. "Details. Keep bringing it up, and you'll make me regret_ not_ shooting you."

"Then what's your problem with me?"

"Well, you're either whining about one thing or bragging about something else, and it gets on my nerves." She slouched a little more, putting her knees in the seat in front of her, then asked, "How does a guy involved in the Italian mob end up pals with Truth and Justice?"

It was a mark of how bored they were that he answered her question. "We happened to be drinking in the same beer joint one night when some guys jumped me," he told her. "I was just having a friendly conversation with these fuckin assholes when someone called someone else a cocksucker, total misunderstanding, and next thing I know they're just kicking the fuckin shit out of me. I could have taken them on my own, you know, but I was wasted and caught off guard, otherwise their asses would have been grass-"

Renata rolled her eyes.

"So they come at me at the same time, just stomping my ass, and then here come these two guys out of fuckin nowhere, tag-teaming these mothers like it's a fuckin cake walk."

"Connor and Murphy," Renata concluded.

"You got it."

"So they had your back in a tight spot, and you became the musketeers after that?"

"Something like that. They're good guys, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

Pigeons strutted up and down the sidewalk, taking flight from the steps of the church as if to soar all the way to Heaven itself from God's temple. Renata watched the birds for a moment, then asked, "They take this religious stuff seriously, don't they?"

"Dead serious," Rocco replied. "As long as I've known them."

"And this whole thing about killing bad guys is part of that?"

Rocco shrugged. "I guess so. They think it's their God-given task, or some shit."

"Do you believe that?"

"_They _ do. And I don't believe in much, but I believe in what they're doing, you know what I mean?"

Renata stared out the window at the church doors as if still seeing the brothers on the threshold, seeking the sanctuary of their Lord and Savior before their mission. "I guess I do..."

They didn't exchange another word until Connor and Murphy walked out of the church and returned to the car. The transformation was remarkable; they went in as humble pilgrims in search of the Creator, and came out as soldiers of God ready to deliver justice to the unrighteous. Renata sensed rather than saw the difference, and it made her breath catch and her heart beat faster, wrapping her in a feeling of reverent wonder. Looking at them, seeing the serenity in their faces and the determination in their steps, it wasn't hard to imagine they_ did_ have some holy duty, a crusade of their own in a world that had departed from faith such as theirs. She struggled to recover from the feeling as they got back in the car, trying to return to her typical irony. "Any divine revelations while you were in there?"

"Didn't go lookin for any," Murphy replied, sliding into the back seat with her.

"Then what were you doing?"

"Come in sometime an' find out," Connor told her, getting into the driver's seat and starting the car.

"Well, what about today?" Rocco asked. "Any blessings on us, the mission, that kind of thing?"

"C'mon, Roc, benedictions aren't in the day's work, are they? Doesn't mean we're goin in unblessed."

* * *

Midmorning saw them parked down the street from the house with the crowded driveway and overgrown yard. Each was readying weapons, double- and triple-checking silencers, and stowing spare magazines in coat pockets. It was awkward work; Vincenzo's Lincoln was a boat, but too cramped for the four of them.

"We need a bigger car," Rocco said to no one in particular. "A cargo van, or some shit. Isn't that how they do it in the movies?"

"Roc, this isn't a fuckin movie," Murphy told him, reaching up to smack him over the head.

"With a van, we could be like the new A-Team," Renata remarked offhand, ignoring him.

"Yeah!" Rocco exclaimed, seizing the idea with enthusiasm. "That's it, the motherfucking A-Team! I call Hannibal!"

"No way, it was my idea, so_ I'm _ Hannibal."

"Hannibal came up with all the good ideas," Connor supplied, and Renata grinned, "which is why I'm the most obvious pick."

She flipped him off.

"Ye're all fuckin insane's what ye are," Murphy told them, drawing on his leather gloves. He searched through his duffel bag and brought out another pair, handing them to Renata along with a ski mask. "Take these."

"Aw shucks, Murph, I'm speechless," she japed.

"Can't take chances," he told her. "No prints, no ID, an' ye might as well look like ye belong."

"Well, aren't you the practical one."

"Hey, wait one fuckin minute," Rocco cut in. "You're just passing out uniforms now? Then why the fuck am I still walking around with this thing?" He brandished a cap with frayed and gaping holes cut into it, and Renata burst out laughing.

"Yers is good," Murphy tried to assure him, fighting to keep a straight face. "Ye look like a fuckin psycho, an' the last person I'd wanna fuck with."

Rocco glared at him and stuffed the crude mask into his pocket. "Fine," he said in a would-be casual voice heavy with irritation. "I see how it is, I'm stuck playing class clown around here-"

"Oh, stop bitching," Renata interrupted. "I'll buy you a drink when we're done here."

"All right, look sharp," Connor broke in, gazing up the road through the windshield. "This looks like our man."

Renata leaned up to get a better view. "Well, fuck me if it ain't," she said, following the gray SUV as it pulled into the driveway.

"You know, you're no fuckin kind of lady I ever met," Rocco informed her.

"What, you mean to tell me you would know a lady if you saw one?"

He rolled his eyes. "Look," he told Connor in an undertone that carried throughout the car, "I love you, man, but this broad's about to drive me fuckin crazy."

"Aye," Connor agreed. "I know the feelin."

Renata winked at him in the rearview mirror.

They watched in silence as the SUV came to a stop and the driver stepped out onto the pavement. Even at a distance Reg cut an imposing figure, a mountain of a man striding up the walk to his front door, fumbling with his keys as he went.

Renata stared unblinking at him, her rational mind slipping away as something more primeval began to take control. Every second of fear and hate she had known in his presence kindled a rage inside that burned stronger than whiskey and hotter than the end of a late-night cigarette. The caution and control she had learned in the past four years fell to nothing as all of her deeper instincts, so long suppressed they were nearly forgotten, flared back to life...to fight, to stalk and hunt and take what was hers. There was evil in that house, and she would use these instincts to help eradicate it. Adrenaline spiked in her veins at the thought, setting loose a wild animal within that wanted nothing more than to jump into battle with blood and fury. If what she was feeling was anything like what drove the brothers, then she could understand what had transformed them in St. Augustine's. Faced with freedom after so long spent in chains, she finally felt alive again.

Murphy glanced sideways at her and saw the fire in her eyes, casting her face in an eerie, feral beauty. It wasn't the flame of God he could feel burning in his own chest, stoking the righteous ardor that fueled his and Connor's mission. It was something different, something almost out of control, like the last scant inch of a lit fuse on a stick of dynamite. The look he saw was dangerous and strangely seductive; he could feel an answering fire within, begging to reach out and merge with hers, and he struggled to contain it before it grew to an inferno. There was no time for it when they were preparing for war. He nudged her gently and urged her, "Steady, Renata. All right?"

She nodded.

"Ye sure? Ye look a little pale."

"So do you," she replied with a smile. "Are we doing this?"

Connor waited until the door had closed behind Reg, then nodded. "Let's go."

The four of them got out of the car and set off up the street, walking casually at first then picking up the pace as they approached the house. They stole around the cars to the back gate, and Connor and Murphy pulled their masks over their faces. Rocco and Renata followed suit, Renata twisting her hair up so it didn't show. Her hands shook slightly and Connor asked her, "Ye sure ye can do this?"

She nodded. "I'm sure."

"Coz this is yer last chance if ye can't."

"I _can._"

"Good." He opened the gate and they rushed into the backyard.

If the front yard was overgrown, the back was a mess. Patches of dry, dead grass interspersed with areas where it grew to almost knee-height. A beech tree grew at the far end, its trunk scarred by a rusty chain fastened around the bole where a dog was once tethered. Mole hills made the ground treacherous to walk on, and there was a hodge podge of lawn chairs scattered on the patio. Blinds were drawn across the sliding door, but the kitchen window was left uncovered. Connor approached it quietly and stole a glance inside. "Empty," he told them in a whisper.

"Most of them will be winding down for the day," Renata replied. "I used to go home and chill out after my shift before I slept, so I can't imagine they'll do differently."

"Aye." He tried to open the window, but it was locked. "Murph, get yer knife."

Murphy drew his knife and worked at the seam of the window, wedging the blade into the sash and forcing the latch. After a moment's efforts, he withdrew the knife and sheathed it again, nodding. "Got it."

Connor fitted his fingers to the frame and pushed the window open.

Without warning, the air was suddenly filled with the piercing wail of an active alarm system, cacophonous and deafening in the quiet neighborhood. The four of them recoiled in shock and Rocco burst out, "You mean you didn't know about the fuckin alarm?"

"How the fuck was I to know?" Renata shot back. While the three men stood dumbfounded, she went to the window and crawled through it into the house.

"Where the fuck are ye goin?" Connor demanded, going after her. Murphy followed his brother without a second thought, and Rocco gave one last curse before bringing up the rear.

They stood in the kitchen, guns hastily drawn, when a man Renata recognized as Jason came sauntering in to shut off the alarm. He paused in surprise, staring at the four intruders, then made to run again, shouting a warning to the others in the house. They all fired at the same time and Jason went down, his blood spattering the walls and carpet.

Connor, Murphy and Rocco stepped over the body and set off up the hallway. Jason's shout, along with the persistent racket of the alarm, had roused the house, drawing the other occupants to the noise. One man rushed down the hallway with a baseball bat and Rocco shot wild, most of the bullets lodging in the walls with only a few hitting their mark before Murphy finished the job with two shots.

"Nice one, Murph!" Connor called over the alarm, stopping only briefly to make sure the man was dead.

Murphy grinned, feeling the excitement and the heat of battle flaring strong. He followed the flickering light of a television set up the hallway and into the living room.

Despite the hour, the room was dark as twilight, heavy drapes over the windows blocking out the sun. Smoke hung thick and gloomy, and the air was rank with the smell of marijuana. The volume on the TV was so high Murphy barely had to muffle his footsteps as he crept into the room-

Something whizzed past his head and he ducked as a television remote smashed against the wall behind him. He turned to his assailant and leveled a shot, but the paunchy man yelled and cursed and began to fling whatever he could lay hands on: couch cushions, ashtrays, empty beer bottles, various drug paraphernalia, and a copy of _ TV Guide. _ Murphy ducked, dodged and circled, spitting out a few obscenities of his own. Where the fuck was Connor?

He raised his guns, trying to get a clear shot while retreating from the man's relentless volley and tripped backwards over the coffee table, landing hard among old pizza boxes and what looked like enough pot to supply the brothers' entire apartment building for a few days. It was then he noticed Connor and Rocco on the far side of the room, both trying to shoot without hitting Murphy. The man whirled around in search of his next missile and caught sight of the two of them, ready to fire; Connor yelled to Murphy, "Move!"

He rolled off the table and ducked, almost missing the sound of the silenced rounds as they left his twin's and their friend's guns. The bullets tore through the man's chest and exited to hit the TV, the screen shattering in a burst of glass. The man himself fell backwards, landing with a crash on the coffee table where Murphy had been only seconds before.

Murphy got to his feet, brushing off the marijuana leaves. "Ye took yer fuckin time about it," he said.

"Ye're the bastard ta talk," Connor replied. "Ye're losin yer touch if ye can't handle one pot-bellied fuckin pot head with a TV changer."

Murphy smiled, then saw the massive figure in the hall behind Connor and Rocco. "Watch it!"

They moved aside just as the man swung the baseball bat his comrade had dropped. The blow connected with the door frame in an explosion of lumber, shrapnel and splinters flying in every direction. They backed away into the living room as the man advanced, standing well over six feet tall with a prison body, arms and chest worked to solid muscle. Based on Renata's information, they guessed this had to be Nugget.

Connor raised his guns and Nugget took another swing at him, forcing him to retreat. Murphy fired several shots but the man was fast despite his size, moving just in time to avoid taking any lethal bullets, and what he didn't dodge entirely struck him in the shoulder; he ignored the injury and just kept coming.

The brothers had been in their share of fights before, but this was something else entirely. In such close quarters neither they nor Rocco could use their guns without putting each other at risk. Nugget was swinging for the fences, keeping them all at arm's length. He moved for Rocco, who dodged the hit by a hair's breadth and leaped aside, falling hard on the coffee table. It groaned and cracked under his and the dead man's weight, creaking even louder as he rolled off and scrambled away from another swing. Connor and Murphy dropped as one to crouch side by side, twisting their guns in their fists to deliver a punch to Nugget's legs; as far as barfights went, it was their signature move, and it was always effective. Nugget dropped to his knees and they rose to their feet, readjusting their weapons for the kill.

Nugget hadn't lost his grip on the bat. He offered a wild swing and clipped Murphy in the elbow, knocking him off balance and causing him to drop the gun. Another swing sent Connor reeling back, putting the big man between him and his brother. Murphy took a hastily-aimed shot that went wide...his senses were blurred with adrenaline, so perhaps he missed seeing the bullet casing eject from the chamber...he took another shot, but there was only a loud click. The gun was jammed. Stunned, he looked closer.

It was the Ruger he had given Renata earlier; she must have switched them in the car when he wasn't looking.

"Fuck!" He pulled the trigger again but nothing happened. Nugget started for Connor and Rocco, dropping the bat and snatching Murphy's fallen gun off the floor, and Murphy rushed him, clubbing him over the head with the jammed Ruger. He stumbled to the floor and Murphy yanked the gun from his hand; he rolled to his feet and made a grab for the baseball bat with his uninjured arm, but the brothers were faster. Two final shots and a spray of blood and gore, and it was done. Nugget dropped next to his housemate and the coffee table finally collapsed with an earsplitting crunch.

Murphy took off his mask, furious. "Swappin shit without a fuckin word," he burst out. "Someone coulda been killed! Where the fuck's she gone?"

Connor and Rocco exchanged puzzled looks as they pulled off their masks. In the flurry of confrontation they hadn't given Renata much thought, and all three of them only just noticed her absence.

"Hey," Rocco said, looking around, "Reg ain't here either."

Connor raised his eyes skyward. "Fuckin hell..."

* * *

As her companions stepped past Jason's body, Renata slipped away and crept upstairs, unwilling to lose her chance. They had lost the element of surprise with the alarm and she was determined to corner Reg no matter what. She kept her gun ready to fire, feeling a little guilty for trading with Murphy but no less resolved. Let him bitch at her later if it cheered him up.

She paused on the landing at the top of the stairs, trying to listen. Reg would surely be ready for something, especially since the shouting started downstairs; it sounded as though the boys had resorted to tearing the house apart. She risked a glance around the corner, but no one was there.

_ You're around here somewhere, asshole..._ She started up the hallway, glancing into the bedrooms as she passed, when a closed door further on caught her eye. The room where Benny's disobedient girls were kept...lowering the gun, she reached for the knob and opened the door, then turned on the light in the room.

It was empty.

She released the breath she'd been holding but her heart began to race. This was it. Nothing had changed since she last saw this room, and before she could stop it, that last time rose out of the shadows of memory...Reg and Marcus...and_ Stacy...fear breaking through her clouded eyes as she moaned with terror-_

Renata dragged herself back to reality before she could go any further. Her hand shook as she tightened her grip on her gun and turned to leave the room-walking straight into Reg McDowell.

He raised an enormous fist and punched her in the face. She staggered backward, nearly bowled over by the hit but somehow staying on her feet. The memory of Stacy fueled the rage inside her; she hardly felt the punch through the anger and adrenaline. _ Fight back...don't back down..._ he came at her again and she dodged, raising the gun to fire, but another punch sent her sprawling. She hit the floor and dropped the gun, her mask knocked awry. Stars flashed in front of her eyes as she pulled it off and out of the way, yet she saw him draw his own gun and take aim; he paused as her hair fell loose and he recognized her.

"Renata," he said, surprise mixing with hilarity in his voice. "You're one ballsy little bitch, aren't you? After that ass-kicking you got last time, you're coming back for another?"

"Fuck you," she spat, her head still spinning.

He stared down at her on the floor, then glanced around the room, a prison cell for countless women just like Stacy; Renata felt sick to think of how many. "It's funny to think of you on this side of the door," he said. "I didn't think you had the balls to come back here after Stacy."

"Fuck you!" she repeated, her voice rising.

"Too bad you pissed off the boss. You were tougher than we gave you credit for, the way you handled everything that night. You could have done some good work with us."

"_Shut up!_" She lunged for her gun but he moved further into the room, halting her with a foot pressing down on her arm until she thought it would break. "You're also a colder bitch than I thought," he added. "You never even asked what we did with her afterward." She reached with her other hand and he kicked her in the stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. "You know something, I'll deal with you later. Marcus still wants his money, and I didn't get to finish with you last time." There was a loud bang downstairs, as if the boys had started smashing furniture, and Reg backed out of the room. "I'll be back," he promised, then he closed the door and locked her in.

His mockery had cut to her bones, knives thrust deeper into wounds that hadn't healed. Again she felt that desperate, frantic_ need, _ only this time it had less to do with withdrawal sickness as it did with the desire to forget this room and what had happened in it...and her own role in the nightmare.

She fought for self-control, pulling herself back to the here and now with colossal effort. She stood, shaky at first and still rather breathless, then threw herself against the door. She wouldn't be turned aside now, not when she was so close! She yanked and twisted on the knob and pounded her fist against the wood. Of all the shit to happen! She had been lucky to get the upper hand last time, and now-

Her eyes fell on the fallen gun and she picked it up off the floor. Fuck it. She would make her own luck.

_ Fight back. Don't back down._

She fired at the doorknob; the bullet shattered the lock and blew the knob clean off the door, the door itself swinging open silently. She ran into the hallway and headed for the stairs, then paused again at the landing. A bag of golf clubs leaned against the wall, looking as if someone had only just left them there, ready for the next game.

She hesitated, then holstered the gun and took a nine-iron from the bag and went downstairs.

* * *

Connor, Murphy and Rocco stuffed their masks into their pockets but kept their guns drawn, heading for the hallway in search of Renata and Reg.

"I _ knew_ this was a bad idea," Rocco muttered.

"Shut it," Connor told him. "Keep yer fuckin eyes open."

They just cleared the living room when the man they knew to be Reg rounded the corner, a gun in his hand. The three of them readied a shot when a woman's voice rang out, "_ Leave him!"_

Renata appeared behind him with a golf club, dealing him a savage blow in the knee. He went down with a scream, jerking the gun up as he fell and firing into the ceiling, chunks of plaster raining down on their heads. She swung again at his hand, knocking the gun aside, and they all heard a crack like another shot as his wrist broke.

Reg lay on the floor, broken and screaming, and her companions watched as he turned to her. "They'll find you, you stupid fucking cunt!" he yelled. "If the cops don't, Marcus will! He'll hunt you down!"

Renata didn't answer, her eyes cold and tense as she tightened her grip on the club. Another swing, and his skull cracked beneath the driver with blood, bone and brain painting the walls. He was dead with one hit but she didn't stop, every blow creating a new shower of crimson. Droplets flew from the end of the iron and she clenched her jaw tighter and tighter as she continued to beat him past recognition. Never a word to betray her, no sign of the depth of her rage, but there was a wild animal in those gray eyes, focused on her prey to the exclusion of all else.

They stood back and watched in silence as anger and frustration exploded with every swing, and she didn't relent until it was spent. She lowered the golf club, bloodied halfway to the handle, and stood staring at the corpse at her feet, panting slightly and her eyes suddenly overbright. She wiped Reg's blood from her face and a lone tear fell, its path coursing through the red smears.

"Ye all right?" Connor ventured to ask.

She nodded. "Yeah," she replied, "I'm fine."

No one believed her, trembling violently and paler than ever beneath the blood. The anger had faded from her eyes, replaced by pain that seemed too deep for words, and though she felt them watching her, she refused to meet anyone's gaze.

"Ye sure?" Murphy pressed.

"Yeah." If they saw through her, she didn't care. Her only concern was getting the fuck out of that house and forgetting everything that had happened there, by any means necessary.

Murphy nodded, then he and Connor each drew a small pouch from their coat pockets.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What needs ta be done," Connor told her. They shook the pouches open and pennies spilled out into their hands, the copper burnished like new in the light. They moved to the bodies and began to lay them out when Rocco stopped them. "Wait a sec...do you hear that?"

They all froze, straining to listen over the nerve-wracking sound of the burglar alarm, and Connor and Murphy locked eyes, each seeing a flicker of panic akin to the moment in the air duct at the hotel in Copley Plaza, just before they crashed through the ceiling onto a roomful of Russian mob bosses.

It was a police siren.

As if the sound was a starting pistol, they all rushed into action. The brothers stuffed the pennies away again and they barreled for the kitchen, Connor reaching the sliding door first. He wrenched the broomstick handle out of the track and unlocked the door, standing aside to let the other three pass, and they hurtled across the backyard for the fence. Murphy and Rocco scaled it easily, and Renata tossed the golf club over before motioning to Connor, who quickly gave her a leg up. She dropped to the ground with the others and picked up the club as Connor joined them, standing straight and taking a deep breath. "Walk slow," he said as the siren's screeching drew nearer. "Don't try ta rush, for fuck's sake."

They headed up the street, Renata trying to keep the bloody golf club as hidden as possible at her side. They held their breath until they reached the Lincoln, the first squad car appearing seconds later and pulling to a stop outside the house they had just left. They all got in the car and Renata wiped the last of Reg's blood from her face. She wasn't shaking nearly as much, but she still felt sick and the need to block out the memories assaulting her was stronger than ever.

"Use yer backpack if ye gotta puke," Murphy told her. "We don't have time ta pull over."

"I'm fucking fine," she shot back, but God, she sure could use a drink. And recalling Connor had made her leave her whiskey behind definitely didn't improve her mood.

"Ye pull any shit like ye did in there again, an' ye're out," Connor warned her, starting the car.

"To be out, I first have to be in," she pointed out, setting the golf club in the floor at her feet. They could throw it into the harbor later, or something.

Murphy gave a hollow laugh and ejected the magazine from the Ruger, then held out his hand expectantly. "Give it over."

She nodded as she handed him his gun and took the Ruger back. "It jammed, didn't it? What did I tell you?"

"Fuckin save it, would ye?"

"An' we're gonna discuss that fuckin vanishin act a yers," Connor added.

"Can we discuss it later and get the fuck outta Dodge, here?" Rocco cut in. "I don't think those guys up there will be all that sympathetic to our cause."

Connor put the car in gear and they drove straight past the squad cars; the officers swarming the house never spared them a glance as they rolled away.

***faints* Whew! Reviews are love, my lovelies! And buckle up, because we're just getting started...**


	15. New Elements

**First of all, if you trot on over to my profile you might notice I changed my avatar to...an angel phoenix! You like?**

**Let's take a moment to welcome the new reviewers, and everyone who favorited and subscribed! So, who's up for some more Smecker and Co.? I had to utilize all my ingenuity and insight for this one, and it took tapping into my inner *deep breath* Troy Duffy, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Victor Hugo, Willem Dafoe, Hadley Fraser, Claude-Michel Schonberg and Alain Boublil. It's short, but trust me, it was a lot shorter in the rough draft. Enjoy, and remember to review!**

Three bodies lay scattered down a single hallway from the living room to the kitchen as if the killers had carved a path straight through the victims. Almost as much blood covered the walls as the set of the average slasher movie. A large chunk of the ceiling had been blown away, leaving bits of plaster sprinkled over the carpet that were slowly ground into dust beneath many pairs of feet. In comparison, the living room looked like a stampeding herd had passed through it, with random objects thrown in every direction, a generous portion of wall missing from the door frame like it had been smashed with a sledgehammer, and two more bodies lying slumped among the wreckage of a coffee table.

Smecker surveyed the scene, filing details away in his mind for later deduction, then turned to Dolly, Duffy and Greenly, who stood waiting at his pleasure. "What do we know?" he asked.

"The alarm went off about an hour ago," Dolly said. "There was never a deactivation code, and the neighbor reports hearing a lot of shouting and a gunshot."

"Just one?" He glanced up and down the hallway. Four of the five men had been shot, and more bullet holes perforated the walls. "One shot in the middle of a war zone..." he trailed off suggestively, allowing the detectives to get there on their own.

"Silencers?"

"Precisely. Did we get anything else from the neighbors?"

"The lady across the street says she saw four people on the sidewalk just before our cars turned up," Duffy answered. "She didn't recognize any of them, never saw them before in the neighborhood, and she swears to Jesus one of them was a woman."

Smecker raised his eyebrows. "What else?"

"We've got more .9mm and another .38 here, then a .45 we linked to the homeowner. If it wasn't for what the neighbor said, I would say the same crew is back at it."

Smecker nodded thoughtfully, then stooped down to examine the floor by one of the bodies. A penny lay discarded on the carpet, polished to a rosy shine. "No, I think we can assume it's our gang..." He then turned to the body. Bullets didn't kill this one; his head had been smashed in so many times that half his skull was a bloody mass of mince meat. "And what do you think of this, Greenly?"

"Crime of passion," he replied at once, "just like the diner."

Smecker shook his head. "Only half right," he said. "It's similar in _some _respects, yes, but crime of passion implies action taken with no previous design whatsoever. Both scenes were the result of premeditation, this one slightly more so." He glanced up the hall where the other bodies lay. "This was a planned hit, and unless I'm mistaken," he indicated the mince meat, "this one was personal."

"None of the other scenes were personal," Duffy argued.

Smecker merely shrugged. "Do we have an ID on any of these men?"

Dolly checked his notes. "Near as we can tell, this one is the homeowner," he said, "Reggie McDowell. The others are all part of the household."

"Do we have anything else?"

"Yeah, they're all on the payroll at that strip joint that got hit last week. And this luckless bastard's the manager."

"Really..." Smecker got to his feet, fitting the new pieces into the puzzle. "They were here for this one in particular," he said, pointing at what used to be McDowell. "You're not going to stop and bash someone's brains out when you've got four others coming at you, especially when you have a frigging gun in your hand. They were all done quick and clean, but someone took his sweet time with Reggie here. If that doesn't say personal, then I'm a cuttlefish."

"Maybe someone wanted to settle a score," Duffy suggested, taking the new perspective in stride.

"There wasn't this much..." Dolly glanced down at the mess on the floor, "aggression, at the other scenes, so either one of our perps had a special grudge, or they got a new recruit with some serious fuckin anger issues."

"Maybe it was the woman," Greenly ventured, trying to keep up with the more experienced detectives in the effort to contribute.

"There's never been a woman involved before," Duffy told him.

"Then what about the blood at the club?"

"Ruled out. It belonged to one of the dancers."

"A dancer at the club our next victims were working out of," Greenly insisted. "Say she's got something against this motherfucker..."

Smecker sighed and continued examining the hallway.

"...so she runs into this gang of fuckin wannabe superheroes and they take him out for her. Then they do the rest of the guys in the house while they're at it and call it a fuckin day."

"Oh, you think so?" Dolly asked.

"Yeah." Greenly cast an uncertain glance at Smecker. "Right?"

Smecker gave an airy shrug. "What does the rest of the house look like?"

"We found a shitload of pot in the living room and a couple of the rooms upstairs," he answered. "Other than that, not a fuckin thing."

"Hm." Smecker drifted away from the detectives and went upstairs. It was a standard bachelor pad, untidy rooms, the smell of dirty laundry, skin mags left propped open to the centerfolds. Then a curiosity in the middle of it all, a bedroom stripped completely bare with only a mattress on the floor and a sheet of plywood covering the window. Smecker halted at the door, studying the knob...or more accurately, where the knob used to be. Something had removed it quite forcibly, leaving a splintered hole in the wood and a mass of twisted metal scattered on the floor. After a moment of scavenging, he found a bullet casing and a slug, guessing them to be .9mm.

That certainly made things exciting.

He looked up from his examination to see his Boston entourage had followed him upstairs. Offering no explanations, he handed the bullet and casing to Dolly. "Get these to ballistics," he said. "It'll be a match to one of the guns used in the other shootings, but we'll want the official report, won't we?"

"No one said a word about this up here," Dolly replied, looking perplexed at the door and the lead in his hand.

"Which is why a good detective gets off his ass and finds these little trifles for himself," Smecker told him, returning to his trademark mixture of instruction and superiority. "We're having a hard enough time trying to figure these guys out without missing things like this. _ This,"_ he said, laying a heavy emphasis on the word and giving Greenly a hard look, "is_ exactly_ like the diner! Shit is going on right under your frigging noses and you can't even see it!

"But there is a silver lining, gentlemen," he added once they were back downstairs. They passed McDowell's corpse again and he finished, "We found Greenly's huge guy."

Dolly and Duffy exchanged knowing smiles while the man in question rolled his eyes.

Smecker continued combing over the house and working around the forensics unit, each processing the scene in a different fashion; one gathered evidence, the other information. What did they know for sure? The killers, though random in most respects, had a certain style. They always used the same weapons, their victims were all thugs and scumbags, and their signature was pennies. Whatever else changed at each scene, those things remained constant. Smecker looked around at the marijuana scattered around the living room, certainly a much larger supply than any small-time dealer could hope to lay hands on at once, and reconsidered that empty, boarded-up bedroom upstairs. These men were bad guys, all right, the kind no one would miss and his gang loved to target. And whatever else he met with at each new turn in this case, it was that, the victimology, that most intrigued him.

"What do you think the game is here, Duffy?" he asked the detective as they examined the living room.

Duffy shrugged. "Vigilantes, like you said. A gang of jerk-offs got hands on some artillery and decided to play heroes, ridding the world of evil."

"Stepping into our place, you might say?"

"That's one way of looking at it."

Smecker looked around at the bodies; there was no doubt in his mind every last one of them had a criminal record, and they had certainly paid the price for their misdeeds today. "But is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

"Fuck, I don't know. If all the common men took it upon themselves to do away with all the assholes in the world, there'd be no end to the chaos."

"Certainly," Smecker agreed. "Plain and simple anarchy." If there was one thing Smecker loathed as much as the criminal element of humanity, it was the disorder that ensued when certain codes of behavior went ignored. Civilization couldn't survive unless everyone played by the same rules. In that light, these vigilantes evading him had to be apprehended if only for considering themselves above those rules. It was his duty, and he wouldn't be swayed from it. Yet on the other hand...part of his brain, the part that had been the most outraged and disenfranchised when Doug Ledford walked, was oddly seduced by the idea of what this gang was doing, going out like cowboys in the wild west and answering to no one as they sent the dregs of society to meet their Maker.

"It makes it difficult to stay focused," he said, "when this gang has done more to clean up Boston's streets in one week than the entire justice system usually manages in a year." He had heard Greenly muttering as much with his own ears a few days ago when the rookie thought no one was listening.

"There's not a cop in the department that would argue with that," Duffy replied. "I don't know how many guys I've put away only to see them get out and do the same shit all over again. This one's got a prior," he pointed to the big man on the coffee table; Smecker surmised he was the slugger who took out the wall. "Did time for an assault that put the man in ICU for a week when the charge should have been attempted murder. And I doubt he's been flying straight since he got out, especially running with these guys."

"So these guys all deserved it, then?"

"The world sure as fuck is no worse off without them."

"So what does that mean about our gang?" Try as he might, he couldn't shake his envy that these men could cross lines he could not, the very lines Agent Myers told him of years ago. A servant of the law devoted to justice above all else, pursuing a band outside the law that served the justice he yearned for. No, the irony wasn't lost on him.

"That's what the system is for, right?" Duffy said, breaking into his thoughts. "Regular guys can't just go out and do shit like that, like they're above the law."

"No one is above the law," Smecker agreed. "But what about the system itself? Your friend here got off on a lesser charge, and how many times have you seen some asshole get off scot-free when you knew he was guilty as sin, because the system is so frigging flawed?"

"More times than I like to think about," Duffy admitted. "And I'll be the first to say I was ready to end it myself a few times, like our gang here."

"What stopped you?"

The detective appeared to hover for a moment, then said, "What would make me any different than any other murderer if I did? We're supposed to stand above that, to protect innocent people from those who step outside the law."

Smecker nodded, trying not to voice the tiny thought that had been growing in his mind since he started working this case: _What if, to protect innocent people and best serve justice, one _had _to step outside the law...just like this gang?_

Duffy interrupted his musings again, and this time he couldn't say he wasn't a bit grateful. "Bottom line, all men deserve equal justice. Everyone should have to answer for their sins."

"Indeed they should," he agreed. "And all we can do must be to that end." He fell silent for a moment, then patted Duffy on the shoulder. "It's been a pleasure talking with you, detective."

Duffy nodded, looking awkward.

"Unfortunately, we know nothing useful," Smecker informed him, Dolly and Greenly later on. "There are new elements here, but no new information. No _concrete _information," he added as Greenly opened his mouth, likely to keep pushing his latest theory. "We were right on their asses this time, but we're no closer to nailing them than Greenly is making chief. They're bound to slip up sooner or later, but we're at a stalemate until they do."

"You mean we're just sitting back with our thumbs up our asses until the next bunch of lowlifes gets whacked?" Greenly questioned.

Smecker gave him an ironic look. "You know what, Greenly, I think we might find these guys first after all."

**So, since there's only so much magic I can work, I'm focusing on Smecker's character arc for the time being and how he goes from Bureau bloodhound to vigilante's best friend. I hope my line of reasoning makes sense. I gave Duffy more screen time here because, well, he's my fave of the trio. :) Also, has anyone noticed Greenly is more on point than usual? I'd like to think he's not a total idiot shooting in the dark with all his theories.**

**One more note: I'm going to have to ask for your patience, my dears. The next chapter is going to be a tough one to wrangle, and I'll need to take extra care to make it as good as you deserve it to be. Take that however you want to mean it... ;)**

**Review, review, review! It helps light a metaphorical fire under my ass!**


	16. Try To Forget

**Before we get started, how about a round of applause for BoondockAngel for being so awesome, and to archerlove for her incredible feedback, which prompted me to go back and do a little tinkering on this and previous chapters. I mean it, guys, applaud!**

**This nifty fact is sponsored by the lovely GoddessLaughs (Waiting Game, Game of Chance, and Name of the Game...go read them NOW). Murph's toast is an Irish expression used to shame someone into drinking faster. I came across it during extensive research and couldn't not use it! And if you're keeping track of these things, it might be interesting to know I had Matchbox Twenty's "Push" on repeat the entire time I was working on this chapter.**

Connor, Murphy, Renata and Rocco were still arguing when they walked through the door of the brothers' apartment. They had kept it up all through the ride from Reg's house, and no one showed any signs of relenting yet.

"If ye were so fuckin set on takin care of him yerself," Connor said, taking off his rosary and hanging it on the wall, "then what the fuck did ye need us for? Ye coulda ambushed him the same on yer own."

"It seemed so much more appealing to throw myself upon your chivalry and Christian charity," Renata replied, slipping out of her coat and tossing it over the arm of the couch. She dropped the golf club, wiped clean, on the floor and absently kicked it under the couch.

"Bull-fuckin-shit. Ye've been manipulatin the situation since the fuckin start."

"Go fuck yourself. I had shit under control. You two were the ones so eager to rescue a damsel in distress."

"Ye were injured, unconscious, and drunk off yer fuckin ass in what amounted ta enemy territory," Murphy told her, setting his duffel bag on the bed. "If that's what ye call under control-"

"I was content to leave your asses standing at the hospital," she shot back. "It's not my fucking fault you wanted to be knights in shining armor, and I'm not going to feel guilty about taking you up on the whole act."

"Taking decent guys for all they'll give her," Rocco said, dropping into a chair and taking out a cigarette. He held it in his lips as he searched his pockets for a lighter, mumbling around it, "There's a fuckin woman for you."

She smacked him hard over the head, knocking the cigarette out of his mouth. He yelped loudly, rubbing the back of his head. "Jesus, woman, the fuck was that for?"

"An' there's still the fuckin problem of ye runnin off an' leavin us ta deal with shit on our own," Connor added, shedding his coat and holster, stowing the latter in his duffel.

Renata snorted. "You mean three grown-ass men couldn't handle the other guys in the house without the _fucking woman?"_ she asked, her derision plain in her voice.

"Ye didn't tell us yer man Nugget was the fuckin Terminator!" Murphy burst out.

"You're right, I didn't. My _exact _words were 'loose cannon,' thank you very much."

Murphy threw his hands in the air and began to pace with agitation. "Ye ran off, fuckin _alone, _with _my _fuckin gun-"

"If someone was going to get stuck with faulty equipment," she interrupted, "then better one of a group where someone can watch his back."

"Renata, ye ran the fuck off on yer fuckin own in the middle of a job!" Connor stormed. In contrast to his twin, he had grown still and intense, a gathering tempest barely containing its fury. "Did ye forget what happened the last fuckin time ye went against that motherfucker alone? We sure as fuck didn't, an' no one knew where the fuck either of ye were-"

"Finally!" Renata exclaimed. "Truth from the man himself! You're pissed because you were _worried. _Shit, boys, I didn't know you cared."

"Aye, fuckin worried," Murphy fired at her. "We didn't haul yer ass ta the fuckin hospital for ye ta get yerself fuckin _killed, _Renata." His gaze fixed on her face, the evidence of Reg's last blows surely visible by now in new bruises, and for the first time she could see the concern and relief striking through the soft blue. She glanced at Connor; he held his emotions a little more in check, but she could see the same in his eyes as well, as if there was only one heart and soul between them and they were destined to share the same thoughts and feelings for as long as they lived. She had wondered about it before, but now felt it with greater certainty.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I really didn't know..." She kept looking back and forth from one brother to the other, identical blue eyes riveted upon her with ever-deeper intensity, and the longer she looked the easier it was to lose herself between them...

"So..." Rocco said, breaking the silence with an awkward look at the three of them, "am I the only one freaked the fuck out by that psycho shit with the fuckin golf club?"

"Fuck no," Murphy replied, finally tearing his eyes away from Renata; on the other side of the room, Connor did the same. "I'll think twice before I piss her off, an' that's the fuckin truth of it."

"Aye," Connor agreed. "Crazy woman's a fuckin savage."

The crazy woman in question rolled her eyes and poured herself a shot of Jack Daniel's. God knew she needed it. The whiskey was halfway to her lips when Murphy asked, "So, why'd ye steal my gun if ye weren't even gonna fuckin use it?"

"I _did _use it," she told him, swallowing the shot and pouring another.

"Not when it counted," Connor replied. "Ye decided ta go batshit with a nine-iron."

"Poetic justice. An eye for an eye, and all that shit."

"Do you even know how to shoot?" Rocco cut in.

Renata downed the second shot and drew the Glock out of her backpack. Before the other three knew what she was doing, she had crushed an empty beer can from off the table and tossed it into the air, taking aim and firing in a few easy movements. The can flew unencumbered, then spun off course and fell out of the air as the bullet struck it. Murphy automatically retrieved it, holding it up so everyone could see the shot. "She fuckin nailed it," he said, sounding vaguely impressed.

Even Rocco couldn't come up with a snappy retort, but Connor merely shook his head at her display and said, "Let's leave off the target practice inside the house, aye?"

Renata switched the safety back on the gun and shoved it back into her backpack. "Mission accomplished though, right?" she said. "Bad guys dead and gone to judgment, and the world is that much safer."

"That's what I'm fuckin saying!" Rocco exclaimed. The day's excitement seemed to have temporarily suspended his marked dislike for her, and he even pulled her into a one-armed bear hug. "Bad ass shit, right?"

"Fuck yeah!" she said. "All for one and one for all!"

"Fuckin A right! The goddamn Three Musketeers!"

"Four, dumbass," she reminded him, elbowing him in the ribs. "d'Artagnan is in the gang now."

Connor and Murphy didn't share their enthusiasm, stowing firearms and making a silent inventory of ammo. Renata eyed them shrewdly. "Why the long faces, boys? We did it! We took up the sword and struck down the wicked!"

"Aye," Murphy agreed. "Mission accomplished."

"Then why aren't you celebrating?"

"Yeah," Rocco urged. "d'Artagnan here already promised me a drink, and she's starting without me."

"Well, pick your poison," she told him. "We've got World Famous Old No. 7 Tennessee whiskey, and whatever the hell that bog juice is."

The brothers gave her a sharp look - it _ was _a jab at Ma's favorite - but said nothing.

She paused in reflection, then said, "You're sulking over those pennies, aren't you? You didn't get to do whatever it is you do with them, and now it's unfinished business."

"It's unfinished business, all right," Connor replied, and Murphy picked up on the subtext immediately. The job was done and Reg was dead, and it would soon be time for Renata to leave. They hadn't openly discussed whatever their feelings toward her were, whether they were purely physical or otherwise, and least of all with her. And between the two of them, there was no need for discussion. Each understood the other, sharing the same within himself, and so it could just_ be, _ neither acknowledged or ignored. Wherever she stood with them, beginning as pure instinct, had shifted rapidly into something that couldn't be disregarded with impugnity for much longer. Her looming departure shouldn't have mattered. It should have been a door closing and they should have been glad of it, to finally be spared such a distraction as she presented. But there was a need to keep that door propped open a little longer, a disturbing, disquieting need, and it plagued Murphy even stronger now that the mission was over. Try as he might, he couldn't make it _ not _ matter. And because he knew Connor, could read him as no one else could, he was sure his twin felt the same.

"Explain this deal with the pennies," she urged, cutting into their thoughts and providing yet another distraction.

"I kinda wanna hear this one for myself," Rocco agreed.

Connor cleared his throat, pausing a moment, then said, "It's the toll ta be paid in death. It used ta be the idea that there was a river in the afterlife, an' the soul had ta travel across by boat ta reach what lay beyond, Heaven or Hell. Ye couldn't ride for free; as in life, ye had ta pay yer fare."

"It sounds fuckin screwy," Murphy said, looking self-conscious at the confession, "but it seemed right. Makin sure they get where they're meant ta go."

Renata smiled appreciatively and nodded her understanding. "Warrior shepherds," she said, and they both smiled in return, thinking of the prayer their father taught them. _And shepherds we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee..._

"That's...a little weird," Rocco said, "but holy shit, that's deep."

Connor gave him a nod. "Thanks, Roc. Glad ye approve." He glanced where the bottles of Jack Daniel's and Hennessy stood, then shrugged. "Why not?" He moved to join Renata at the table and poured himself a shot of Hennessy. Knocking it back with a satisfied look, he turned to her and asked, "Bog juice, ye say? What about that redneck piss ye're drinkin?"

"_I'm _drinking the nectar of the South, thank you," she replied, putting on a prissy manner and pouring another round with a flourish.

"Sure, an' ye're not from the fuckin South," Murphy pointed out, going to the fridge and taking out several cans of Guinness.

She shrugged. "I'm just saying the epithet is inaccurate." She poured three more shots and passed them around. "Hammer down, lads."

"Rev up or fuck off," Murphy added, taking his glass from her.

She raised hers in salute. "Now that's what I call a toast."

She had to hand it to the three of them, they could make a few shots at home seem like a party. They drank their way through the rest of her whiskey before moving onto the stock of Hennessy, slowing down only for beer and cigarettes. Someone suggested a hand of poker after a time and they played for spare cash and Renata's stash of candy. A game of beer pong followed, pairing off into teams and flicking pennies into glasses of Guinness. Renata and Rocco pulled off a stunning loss, which was nullified by Connor and Murphy's refusal to miss out on perfectly good beer. They got louder and wilder as the night wore on, carrying on long after the booze ran out and they were down to the last of their cigarettes.

It was half after two when Rocco called it quits. "That's it, I'm done," he announced, grinding a cigarette butt into the nearest ash tray. "I gotta take off." He got to his feet, using a more concentrated effort than should have been necessary, and went on, "I've been staying at my mom's place, and if I get in too late, her psychotic fuckin lap rat dog will go apeshit on me the second I walk through the fuckin door."

"Oh, that's so, Roc?" Connor asked. "She's got, what, some kinda terrier? Sounds like a regular fuckin hell hound."

"Poor bastard," Murphy lamented. "Thirty-five years old with a fuckin curfew."

Connor and Renata burst out laughing, the gaiety coming more careless and with more abandon than usual. Rocco rolled his eyes as he put on his coat. "Fine, then, laugh all you fuckin like, but it sure beats the shit outta staying at my own place and getting my ass shot off."

"Right, right... See ye, Roc."

"We got business to discuss now, you realize that?"

The brothers nodded, and with a final farewell Rocco left.

Renata leaned back in her chair, tapping the edge of a penny on the table. "What business do you have to discuss?" she asked.

"He's got some hit man he thinks we should snuff out," Murphy told her. "He seems pretty serious about it."

"Ah. I see." Her eyes passed over the tattoos on their hands. _Veritas...aequitas... _"So tell me, what's the real reason you started snuffing out bad guys?"

"We already told ye," Connor replied, "someone should, an' why not us?"

"Well, yeah, but why you? How did it start?"

He paused thoughtfully, watching her continue to tap the penny. She had asked this once before, and he hadn't forgotten his answer. "Ye really wanna know?" he asked.

"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't."

"In that case, how's yer faith lately?"

The look she shot him was skeptical and exasperated. "Are you serious?"

"Very," Murphy told her. He knew exactly what Connor was thinking, being of the same mind himself: There was no point trying to explain if she wasn't willing to believe.

She rolled her head back on her shoulders and heaved a sigh. "I'm not sure," she replied. "Other people can believe what they want, but as far as I can tell, God's been a no-show my whole life. If He's been hanging around, then I haven't seen Him." They both stared hard at her, so she went on, "I guess if I had some reason to believe then it might be a different story, but we leave each other alone for the most part."

"Ye mean ye can't just_ believe?" _ Connor asked.

"I don't believe anyone, Connor, and I don't put my faith in anything without just cause."

"That's kinda the whole fuckin point of faith, Renata," Murphy said. "Ye gotta be willing ta believe without proof."

"And maybe I'm just a cynic, but that sounds pretty naive to me." She sat tapping for a moment or two, looking from one to the other. "So?" she asked. "Does that answer your question?"

"Aye, it does," Connor answered. "Ye're not ready ta hear this yet."

"Try me."

"It means ye gotta believe without proof," Murphy warned her.

"No, it means believing your word," she corrected, "and it's turned out to be pretty sound so far."

"Ye mean ye're willin ta trust someone, as many times as ye've been screwed over?"

"I've been screwed over enough times, I trust my ability to pick out the bullshit."

Connor shrugged, casting his memory back to that night in the holding cell. Agent Smecker had cleared them of killing Checkov and his henchman, which was the icing on the cake compared to having escaped their encounter with the Russians alive. They had stayed overnight at the precinct to avoid the reporters, playing cards late into the night with a few of the officers who had been working the scene in the alley. As far as half the department was concerned, the MacManus brothers were heroes.

Sleep had provided some semblance of normalcy in what was otherwise the strangest fucking day of their lives...well, up to that point, at least. Because one moment they were sleeping, and the next...

"What was it, Murph?" he asked. "What would ye call it?"

Murphy shrugged as well. It was one thing to put it in black and white for Rocco, who would accept the _what _with no need for the _why, _but it was another to try and make Renata understand the moment of their calling. "It's hard ta say. I mean, it was just fuckin _sleep, _an' then it was somethin else. Somethin different. Like...like the moment the clouds break an' the rain first starts ta fall." _As if the angels had reached down from Heaven to anoint them..._

"Like the first second of peace after a hard fight," Connor added. _The quiet, perfect stillness that came over them, waiting to be kindled with holy fire..._

"An' findin a sense of direction after driftin at sea," Murphy concluded. _The clarity that filled their souls as they understood their purpose..._

Connor mulled over his next words, trying to rationalize when it came so much easier to simply_ believe. _"It came from inside, but that's not where it started," he said. "The message was the oil, an' we were just the lamps for it ta burn in. Not in words, really, just in this feelin of _knowin, _ as certain as knowin yer own name."

"Not knowin we had ta kill, exactly," Murphy explained, "but that we were bein chosen. The instruments of God, bringin the wicked ta heel so the godly could prosper."

_ Destroy that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish._

Renata sat unmoving, trying to absorb their story. Rocco had called it their God-given mission, and they seemed beyond doubt that it was. The cynicism she had confessed to wanted to write it all off as insanity, or overzealous religious extremism; it would have been far easier to do so had she not seen with her own eyes the way they walked out of St. Auggie's that very day, a torch of faith burning steadily between them. And there had always been something about them she couldn't put her finger on, as if they were set apart from other men, set aside for some special purpose..._ The chosen instruments of God..._ between that feeling and what she had seen at the church, maybe it wasn't so hard to believe it. She stared from one to the other, seeing faith and conviction burn from within once more, and the taint upon her own soul seemed to weigh her down, the memory of her sins and guilt setting her as far apart from them as they were set apart from mankind. They really_ were _ too holy for her. They destroyed the wicked, and she...

"So what now?" Connor asked her after a long silence, pulling her out of her dark thoughts. "Where are ye goin from here?"

"No idea," she replied. "I still can't believe it's over. Part of me feels like it's still happening, like Reg and Marcus can pull me back in at any second." _ Like that night with them and Stac_y_ will never go away..._

"They can't," Murphy told her, disturbing the idea before it could take proper shape. "It's in the past now. Ye're free."

She gave him an ironic, almost pitying look. "It was my world for four years," she said. "It's not going to just disappear all at once. It's going to take some time before I can forget."

As if that was even possible.

"Ye can try, though," Connor told her, "now that ye've got the freedom ta make it a priority."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. "Ye can cry when ye're sad, get pissed when ye're angry, an' fuck when ye're horny."

"Damn right I can," she said, turning her steely eyes on him. "And I intend to."

A stillness fell over the table as her meaning sank in. The air felt heavy and static, the atmosphere charged as with shifting weather. Every heartbeat sounded like thunder in the quiet loft, loud and irregular and pounding faster and faster. Hunger breathed in the silence, and a desperate longing that was harder than ever to ignore.

_ Forget... Try to forget..._

Trying to disregard the way his blood had turned to fire in his veins, Connor hitched a smile onto his face. "Watch out, Murph," he warned. "I think she's tryin ta put the moves on ye."

"I think I can handle her," he replied, meeting her gaze across the table. It was true once, he _ thought _ he could. Now, though, he wasn't so sure. Connor could joke and act like it wasn't going on, like this wasn't affecting him; for Murphy, on the other hand, it was taking all the willpower he possessed to resist.

Renata stared back at him, then looked at Connor. The stillness passed, replaced by growing tension and the same wild instincts that drove her earlier, only now they were singing a different song. Her blood burned and her skin flushed with sudden heat, seared with eyes alone as they watched her so intently. "Come on, boys," she teased, though something in her pulse felt electrically charged. It was better than being high, strong enough to make her forget everything but the here and now. "Don't look at me like that unless you mean it."

"Doesn't matter," Connor said, wondering how long he could keep pretending this was an ordinary conversation. Murph would see through him and probably already had; he wondered if she could, too. She_ had _ to know already. Fuck, all three of them must have sensed this coming for awhile now, when it still remained in the background. And with all of her brashness and bullshit, she had placed it center stage to be confronted at last, and he didn't know if he was ready for it. "Ye're leavin soon, aren't ye?" he asked, to remind himself as much as anyone else.

"So it really _ doesn't _ matter," she replied. "I'll be out of your hair before long, so long and good riddance, but we're all here right now." God, why couldn't they just let go of all their morals and restraint already, just quit fighting when she knew they were as desperate for it as she was? She still needed to forget, and there was a high greater than any pill or whiskey right in her hands. She wasn't the only one who wanted to give in, she could see it in their eyes, the blue nearly swallowed by desire. "We can do anything we want with no regrets, because tomorrow doesn't matter."

"Renata, don't push it-"

"Connor," Murphy broke in. He glanced sideways at his brother, for once unsure what he was about to say. For his part, he was beyond hope. Holding out wasn't possible anymore, and if she persisted he would surrender without a second thought. He didn't want to fight it anymore, and he could read in Connor's eyes the fragile hold he had on his resistance. He would break before long, no matter how hard he fought.

Renata kept tapping the penny, her nerves needing some immediate outlet, just waiting to see who would be the first to cross the line. There was no going back from this. To walk away now would mean hastening her departure from the loft, because there was no way they could restore things as they were. There would be no more harmless teasing or casual flirting, not with the weight of this heat slowly bringing down the walls they had tried to maintain.

She looked from Connor to Murphy and back again, their hunger betrayed with one look. She wondered who would give in first...and how long before the other followed suit...

The hand tapping the penny stilled, and she let it fall from her fingers. "Just tell me one thing," she said, her voice low and soft, "what would you do tonight if I was leaving tomorrow?"

**NOOOOOOO, not a cliff hanger! A-P, how could you?! In my defense, this chapter was over twenty-some pages long by the time I finished with it, and way too much to post it all at once. Besides, it's been too long since I indulged my taste for cliffies. *evil cackle* I'm not all that heartless and I really want you to read what happens next, so the rest will be up before you know it. In the meantime, review! Fave! Subscribe! SHOW ME HOW BAD YOU WANT IT!**


	17. Alchemy

**Have I kept you waiting long enough, or can you hang awhile longer? Oh, you want it right now? Well, I would hate to disappoint you... Pardon the delay, but I've been down in the trenches, squaring off with my muse trying to make this awesome. You'll have to tell me if I succeeded. *hint hint* I now present 5400+ words of my dark side unleashed! Enjoy! You've earned it! **

** Dedicated with faith, hope and love to xxInspireMexx, best friend and soul sister. I love you, girl!**

There was a mere instant in time, just long enough for Renata's words to sink in, and Murphy acted. There was no guarantee of tomorrow, especially in their line of work, and if tonight was all he had with her, then he damn sure wasn't going to waste it. Throwing restraint out the window, he got to his feet, drew her out of her chair, and yanked her body to his as he kissed her.

Her head began to spin the moment his lips touched hers. She had already pegged Murphy as the more intense, emotional twin, but she was completely unprepared for the shock waves that went racing through her body, or how her own desire surged to dizzying heights in response to his. Her mouth fell open as a soft moan escaped her and his tongue grazed softly across her lips before delving deeper, hungry and desperate and searching for _ more. _ He lifted his hands to run _ his _ fingers through _ her _ hair, and she clung tight to him as her knees buckled beneath her, like the female lead in some derpy chick flick. It was incredible; with one damn kiss, Murphy MacManus had reduced her to a reeling, quivering blob of hormonal jelly.

Connor watched them in silence, shaking his head even as his arousal bypassed "insistent" and moved somewhere between "painful" and "batshit insane." Leave it to his brother to haul a woman out of her chair and try to force-feed her his tongue. He had never learned the subtle art of drawing her in and letting the woman come to him.

He rose and tapped Murphy on the shoulder, anticipation sending a spike of excitement through his body, and when Murphy finally broke away from Renata he brushed him aside to show him how the deed was done. He pulled her close with one hand on her hip and brushed her hair back from her face, letting his fingers fall along the slope of her neck and watching need pool in her eyes at his touch. He paused for an instant, feeling her breath on his face as tremulous as the pulse point beneath his fingertips, then he kissed her, feather-light and coaxing enough to provoke a shiver before she melted into him, opening up and following exactly where he wanted to lead her.

If Murphy's kiss made her head spin, then Connor's took her breath away. In this as much as everything else there was balance to be found between them, the raw passion of one brother starting a wildfire that seared her with its power, and the smooth sensuality of the other tempering the inferno into a blaze that would burn through the night. They would break her apart and put her back together to their liking before this was over; she knew, and at the moment she didn't even care.

Connor drew back a little sooner than she would have preferred and she leaned to close the distance before she was aware. Judging by the satisfied gleam in his eyes, that was just as he intended. She gave him and Murphy a questioning look. "Have you ever shared a girl before?" she asked.

"Ye mean one takes his turn fuckin her, an' the other goes right after?" Connor questioned.

She shivered with excitement as the words hit the air and nodded.

They both shook their heads.

"It's probably not sanctioned by the pope," she teased.

"Prob'ly not," Murphy agreed. The idea was novel, something they had never tried before, leaving him as anxious as he was excited, and before he knew it he was chewing nervously on his thumb; she smiled at him and sent another flutter in his stomach and more blood to his cock.

"An' we never found a girl we both liked, who liked both of us," Connor added. "We mighta had a shot with Connie Delaney when we were sixteen-"

"I remember her," Murphy said, still chewing. "I stepped back an' let ye ask her out-"

"An' it turned out she liked ye more," Connor went on, rambling slightly as his own nerves caught up to him, "but ye were too fuckin shy ta speak up an' talk ta her. I offered ta set ye up, but she thought ye weren't interested."

"Aye, an' ye fucked her anyway."

"Ye got a fuckin blow job from Annie Shaw two fuckin days after I broke things off with her!"

"That's not the same thing, an' ye fuckin know it, ye retard!"

Renata listened to the exchange with amusement, then she took them each by the hand and led them around the table to the beds, grinning to recall she had pushed them together herself. "You don't have to worry about that right now," she told them. "I've said I won't play favorites, and I mean it. I'll have both of you, or neither."

"Ye really _ are _ fuckin crazy," Connor told her.

Her grin widened and she released their hands, turning her back to them and lifting her shirt over her head. Neither of the brothers took their eyes from her as she began to undress, the thrill of anticipation mingling with the heated rush of desire to watch her shed her clothes and slowly reveal more skin. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw them standing there staring at her, both still fully dressed. "Shucks, guys," she said, "a girl would think you didn't _ want _ to fuck her."

They took the hint and immediately began shedding layers, trying to catch up. She smiled, then reached to unhook her bra. "Who is going first?" she asked.

"It's up ta you," Murphy replied, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans.

"No way," she said, shaking her head. "You settle it yourselves. Don't put it off on me."

"Flip a coin?" Connor suggested, stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," she mumbled where they couldn't hear her.

"Rock paper scissors?" Murphy offered. Connor considered it, then gave a quick nod and held out his fist. "Count a three," Murphy told him, his own fist at the ready. "One, two, three."

Two scissors.

"Fuck," Connor swore. "Ye know we never solved anything like this."

Renata rolled her eyes.

"One," Murphy persisted, "two, three."

Two rocks.

"Christ, Murph, just find a fuckin penny," Connor said, "ye know we got em comin outta our arses around here!"

"C'mon, man, one more go!"

Renata stepped out of her jeans and panties to the sound of their third bout, then revolved to face them. They both paused, eyes roving over her naked flesh, and she laughed at the sight they presented, two grown men halfway through undressing and settling a dispute like ten-year-olds. "Tell you what," she said, "the first one to get naked goes first."

They moved with more haste, trading shoves and nudges as each tried to slow the other down. Renata watched them for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed as they continued to race each other, then she gave that wolfish grin of hers and lay back, putting her hand between her legs. Connor and Murphy had shed the last of their clothes before they caught sight of her and they froze on the spot, mesmerized as she touched herself, eyes falling closed while she purred and hummed with pleasure.

As far as seductions went, it was her most persuasive argument yet. They both hardened as they watched her, Connor groaning low in his chest and Murphy's hands giving an occasional restless twitch. She moaned softly as the pressure gathered in her core and they echoed the sound. "Fuckin Christ..." Connor muttered.

"Lord's fuckin name," Murphy rebuked automatically, though the hitch in his voice betrayed lust and need.

Renata's moans grew into tiny cries as she edged closer and they hurriedly joined her on the bed, one to either side of her. Her eyes snapped open, hazy and unfocused, then she heaved a sigh and said, "You couldn't have given me another thirty seconds."

"Shoulda, coulda, an' all that shit," Connor told her, reaching for her and pulling her to her knees, drawing her body flush to his before he kissed her. Murphy edged in behind her and ran his hand from the scar on her thigh to the tattoo on her shoulder, snaking an arm around her waist and nuzzling into her neck, breathing in the smell of her. He grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips, licking softly at her wet fingers before putting them in his mouth and sucking them clean.

She drew in a shuddering breath, breaking away from Connor's lips. He moved his kisses to the opposite side of her throat, reaching between their bodies to slip his fingers inside her. Her hips bucked forward into his hand as he stroked her clit, murmuring against her skin, "Fuckin hell, Murph, she's soaked..."

"Aye," Murphy agreed, lowering her hand from his mouth and cupping her breast. "An' she tastes fuckin amazing."

"Holy shit," Renata gasped, their words and actions driving her mad. Murphy rolled her nipple between his fingers as Connor continued to circle her clit; she bit her lip to contain a shrill yelp and he chuckled. "Don't keep those ta yerself," he told her. "I like ta know when ye're enjoyin yerself, an' Murph loves the screamin."

"He'll have to earn it," she replied, trying to maintain her cocky manner despite the quaver in her voice.

Murphy grinned, squeezing harder, and she moaned louder than ever. "What about Connor?" he asked.

Connor took the cue, and with another deft flick of his fingertips, she came undone, throwing her head back and pulling him closer, calling out his name in an exhilarated shout. He swore under his breath as her body rocked harder against his, the ache in his cock suddenly excruciating when he wanted so badly to be inside her. He glanced past her to Murphy, the words passing unspoken in one look. _Let me go first, brother._

Murphy paused a moment, then nodded, giving her breast a final squeeze before moving away.

Everything felt hazy after her orgasm, but Renata was alert the instant Murphy left her, her skin still warm and tingling where his had been. She blinked lazily, bringing everything into focus, and her gaze met Connor's; his usually mild eyes were alive and wild, and she understood without a word. Lowering herself back on the bed, she pulled him along with her, closing the distance between their bodies. She twisted her head to look at Murphy, watching the scene in front of him with rapt attention. "Taste her, Connor," he urged, and she let out a shiver at the low, intense growl.

Connor sucked the fingers he had stroked her with and she felt another rush of heat through her body at his groan of pleasure. She ran her hands up and down his spine, feeling the smooth contours of the muscles of his back, then she paused with a hand on his ass, yanking his hips to hers. "Come on, Connor..."

He needed no further encouragement, pushing her legs open and taking himself in hand. Her fingers closed over his as she guided his way, then he thrust himself inside her.

She let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, rocking her pelvis and reveling in the friction they created. Connor held his breath for a moment, trying to stay focused. God, she felt so good, so hot and wet and perfect, but he kept control. He held still for one long moment, then began a slow, deliberate rhythm, nearly pulling himself out, then pushing himself back in to the base of his cock.

Her hands groped at his back again, feeling muscles ripple beneath her fingers as he set a pace that was at once delicious and agonizing. Her body tingled and her blood sang with every stroke, her breath catching in her lungs as ecstasy began to climb again, higher and higher with every movement. She could feel the heat of his skin, smell the whiskey on his breath, and she reached up to grasp a handful of his tousled hair as she leaned into his rhythm, eager for all he would give her.

Connor watched her carefully, studying the nuances of her expression and reading her responses. Badly as he wanted to push forward with reckless abandon, he held to his controlled pace, keeping his strokes long and slow and letting satisfaction build to its climax. She bucked against him, thrusting upwards in her impatience to finish, but he wasn't about to let her off the hook so easily. She struggled to match his thrusts and he slowed even more, gliding his hand up along her body and exploring every inch of skin along the way. "Slow down," he told her. "We have all fuckin night."

She squeezed her eyes shut as he kept her on the edge, dangling at his whim. "I should have known you'd be the tease," she mumbled.

A smile tugged at his lips as he leaned down to her, trailing a path of kisses from her shoulder along her neck. "It'll be worth the trouble," he promised, and she let out a groan in response.

Murphy knelt nearby on the bed and watched them together, unable to take his eyes away. It was erotic and exciting as hell, and he felt an urge to touch himself that was almost too strong to resist. But while it was one of the sexiest fucking things he had ever seen, it was also...fuck, it was _ beautiful. _ Renata was coming apart under Connor's slow torture, her tough attitude falling away as the woman beneath showed through. This was who she really was, visible for the first time. She was strong and vulnerable, wild and desperate, and the more she reacted to Connor, the more Murphy reacted to her. Her beautiful, eager body, the sounds she made, her unguarded expression... Fucking hell, _ she _ was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

She wound her arms tighter around Connor's shoulders as he clutched at her thigh and guided her leg around his waist, grabbing her ass and shifting her body beneath his to change his angle. She cried out at the jolt inside, deeper than ever and enough to drive her crazy but still not enough to grant her any release; from somewhere outside the melding flesh that was her and Connor she heard Murphy groan and curse. She turned to look at him again and he was actually shaking, his entire body thrumming desperately and his eyes dark with lust, boring into her even as Connor continued to fuck her into insanity.

The thought pushed her even further and she leaned up to him, kissing from the base of his neck to the stubble along his jaw, unable to keep from rocking her hips again in her race towards euphoria. Her fingers curled reflexively, the nails digging sharply into his back, and he had to contain a yelp of his own. "Fuckin hell..."

Murphy smiled slowly. "_Finished?_" he asked in French.

"_Wait your fucking turn_," Connor replied tersely in Italian.

"_She likes French, dumb ass_."

As if to illustrate his point, she breathed in a kind of suspended bliss, "Keep talking..."

Murphy's smile grew and he fixed his eyes back on her, the dim light in the loft painting her and Connor in living shadows. Yeah, it was beautiful, all right, and if he wasn't so desperate for her himself, to feel her against him and have his fill of her, to make her whimper and cry her pleasure and know he was the cause of it, he could have stayed there forever lost in the sight of it.

Connor cast a glance at his brother, never faltering his measured pace. _"Take a picture, Murph_," he said, speaking French as well. "_It'll last longer."_

"_Don't tempt me. I just wish you could see her right now... She's fucking_ amazing, _Connor_."

_"Aye_," he agreed, switching to Gaelic as his accent thickened and he had to treble his focus, the sensations were so intense. "_You have no fucking idea..."_

Holy God, when had it ever been like this? When had any of the guys she had slept with done so much for her? Connor's style was borderline sadistic, driving her crazy with sheer desire and yet she was ready to beg for more, Murphy's fervent stare watching her as if she was the most beautiful creature alive and he would go crazy if he looked away, and those fucking languages... Her mind began to fracture and her heart skipped erratically; it was like that millisecond at the top of the roller coaster right before the rush of the drop. "God, Connor," she moaned urgently, "Connor, please, I'm so fucking close..."

"Aye," he agreed breathlessly. He doubted he could take much more himself, anyway. He leaned forward onto his arms, hands splayed on the mattress at either side of her head, and changed his thrusts from long and slow to hard and fast. Her body tightened around his almost instantaneously, her inner muscles clamping down on his cock, and he gave in at last, losing control as pleasure came in a rush of electricity. Blood pounded hard in his ears, but not loud enough to drown out how she moaned and cried his name over and over in a fevered litany, and in a moment of blasphemous pride it sounded like she was praying to him in ecstasy. He touched her face with one quivering hand and fought the urge to close his eyes, not wanting to lose sight of her yet; alive with rapture, eyes shining with passion as they gazed into his, there was nothing ordinary about her.

Her body relaxed around the same time fatigue stole over him and he disengaged, lowering himself to the bed beside her. A quiet paralysis settled in his limbs, leaving no desire to move or even think, but he felt Murphy's gaze heavy upon him and he turned his eyes to his twin, looking half-delirious with need but a question still plain in his face. _You're good? _

Connor nodded slowly. _Aye, I'm good. _Better than good, really. It felt inevitable to end up here with her, and so _right_ that he couldn't find it in himself to argue. If things happened the way they were meant to._.. _His eyes flicked to Renata, still looking lost in the aftershock of her climax, then back to Murphy. _She's good, too. _

Murphy flashed a devious grin before moving in.

There was a pleasant, effervescent feeling in Renata's veins, tingling through her body like the calm after a storm. A blank peace had fallen over her, a dream haze shutting out reality; she couldn't tell if she was floating on air or sinking into oblivion. She reached out a languid hand and brushed her fingertips along Connor's arm, trailing down to his hand and across his knuckles. Truth, indeed. It _ was _ worth the trouble.

The dream haze was cast aside with a stirring of movement to her other side, and she recalled Murphy, eyes dark and hungry as he watched and waited for her. The wildfire sparked to life again the moment he touched her, pulling her close again. "C'mere, sweetheart," he murmured. "I know ye got somethin left for me..."

She sighed in affirmation. "Murph..." He bowed his head to hers for another deep kiss, then he took hold of her hips and guided her onto her side, fitting his body around hers.

She wriggled back against him and he couldn't help but rock forward, his aching cock grinding against her ass, her skin so warm and soft where it met his. He drew her hair back over her shoulder and his lips brushed at her throat, tongue lapping at the sensitive skin behind her ear. She shivered and whimpered as he slipped his hand between her thighs, moving her legs to make room for himself, and holy God, he didn't even have to touch her to feel the damp heat still radiating from her. He aligned their bodies, one hand clasped firmly at her hip, then thrust deep.

She let out a gasp at the impact, pulsing out from head to toe, and for a moment she could swear she saw stars. He held still long enough to lean in again and say, "Tell me if ye want me ta stop."

"No," she replied. "Don't stop."

She felt his reply in an exhalation on her skin, then he began to move and sent her spiraling into delirium. He was nothing like Connor, whose slow and steady manner had all but unhinged her long before he gave her any relief. Murphy held nothing back from the start. He _ was _a wildfire compared to Connor's slow burn, his thrusts hard and swift, pushing her forward even as she arched back into him. Her body had scarcely recovered from her joining with Connor, and Murphy's assault on her senses was all the more intense for it. His aggressive rhythm set every nerve on fire, jarring her all the way to her bones, and she reached out with hands desperate for something to hold on to. Her fingers latched around Connor's wrist, the nails biting into his skin as her free hand twisted the bed sheets in her fist.

The restraint Murphy had barely kept while watching her fuck Connor had snapped, leaving something far more animal and fierce behind. Seeing her come for his brother added fuel to the fire already burning him alive; by God, she'd come again like that for him before he was done with her, and he wouldn't stop until she did. She felt just right around his cock, the heat of her scorching him wherever skin met skin. She pressed against him as if she too wanted to fuse their bodies together, and he bowed close to her again, kissing the nape of her neck and tasting the salty sweat that made her hair cling to her flesh. He tightened his fingers at her hip and he reached to lock his hand over hers, still clutching at the sheets as he pounded into her.

The nails digging into his wrist stung and burned like hell, but Connor didn't pay it any mind. He was too caught up in her, watching every sensation play out across her face. Murphy was right, it _was_ amazing to see her jagged edges made smooth, the attitude she displayed exchanged for the woman she was, set free after being kept locked away and rejoicing in everything they gave her Her eyes were closed again and she had her bottom lip caught in her teeth, biting down hard before her mouth fell open and she gasped and panted, her breathing syncopated with Murphy's. Connor leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, the taste of them already becoming so familiar, and even though he had come moments before it was enough to make him hard again, the way she kissed him while Murphy was fucking her. He didn't try to break her grip on his wrist, simply moved his hand to his cock while she held on. There was nothing slow or deliberate about it now, pumping from base to tip and tightening his fist urgently, and the motion traveled up her arm, locked as it was onto his. She opened her eyes, steely gray eclipsed by black arousal, and he refused to look away again, his hand moving faster as he hurried to finish with both of them, her and his twin.

She was about to lose her fucking mind. Connor beating off to her while Murphy screwed her-and himself-senseless... No, it had _never_ been like this before, not for her or for them. It was yet another barrier crashing down that she never wanted to rebuild, never realizing until now just how badly she wanted to destroy it in the first place. The dark twin brought his lips to her ear, his voice harsh and gravelly as he whispered, "Scream, Renata..."

"Aye," the light twin agreed, the words forceful and demanding. "Do it, girl..."

As if she was only waiting for the command, she surrendered, burying her face into the mattress to muffle the sounds. Murphy growled in discontent, seizing a handful of her hair and forcing her head back as ecstasy exploded again in a chain fire, breaking anew with every breath and motion. It was more than she could contain and she couldn't help but obey, releasing the screams they wanted from her, echoing wildly in the shabby loft.

Murphy thrilled at the sound and the approach of his own climax, clutching tight and pinning her down as he drove harder to ride it out. He knew a moment's fear through the madness that he was hurting her as she struggled, but she only moved _ with _ him, going at it as rough and relentless as he was, and he came at last with a groan and a curse, releasing his grip on her and rolling onto his back. He was drenched in sweat and breathing so heavily his lungs felt ready to burst; he felt Connor's eyes on him and turned to meet his brother's gaze, and judging by the look he saw there, the horny bastard had gotten off again in the middle of the insanity Murphy had found himself on the brink of. _ You're good? _

Murphy gave a ghost of a smirk and nodded. _ Aye, I'm good. _

Renata was spent, barely breathing and with no intention of ever moving again. This had to be nirvana, laying exhausted but satisfied between them with the smell of sweat and sex hanging in the air and the memory of Murphy's voice as he urged her screams and Connor's eyes as he came fresh in her mind. She wasn't sure it was even in her ability to walk yet, and as her heart finally slowed its reckless pace and her breath returned, she whispered in fatigue, "Jesus Christ..."

"Fuckin hell, Murph," Connor said, moving close to her again and smoothing her hair out of her face, "were ye fuckin the poor woman, or were ye torturin her?"

"Mighta got carried away a bit," Murphy agreed, pressing near on her other side. "Ye still in one piece, love?"

"Mm, say that again," she sighed. "It sounds so nice in that lovely accent."

He smiled and laid his head on her shoulder, surprisingly docile after the ferocity of their coupling, and asked in an innocent, casual voice, "Are ye gonna tell us who was better?"

"Oh, I don't think so," she replied, reaching up to give him a rebuking swat on the head. "That counts as favoritism, my dear Murphy."

"Nah, it doesn't," Connor assured her, trailing idle hands across her skin. "It's just honesty."

"The answer is still no."

"Aw, c'mon, Renata..."

"At least tell us who's got the bigger cock."

"What?" she burst out, laughing. "Is that supposed to be a serious question?"

"Well, yeah," Connor replied as if it should have been obvious.

"It's just settlin an old argument," Murphy wheedled. "We gotta find out who's oldest."

"What the fuck does one have to do with the other?"

"Somethin our ma told us," Connor explained. "Just tell us, that's not playin favorites."

"Connor's a big boy, he won't get his feelings hurt."

He gave his brother a whack over the head.

Renata heaved a sigh and brushed them away from her. "All right, all right," she groused, "let's compare the MacManus family jewels to determine once and for all who has the bigger cock and is therefore the older twin. This has got to be the weirdest fucking sibling rivalry in history."

"How do ye know that? Ye're an only child."

"Whatever." She sat up and turned to face them, studying first Connor's crotch, then Murphy's. Each lay flat on his back, posturing suggestively and trying to show himself off to the best advantage, staring at her bare body in open appreciation all the while. She kept them in suspense for several expectant minutes, tilting her head from side to side in mock concentration.

"Well?" Murphy prompted.

"Well," she said, "how exactly did your ma mean 'bigger?'"

They both paused in brief confusion before Connor asked, "What?"

"There are different ways to judge," she went on. "I mean, one is longer, the other is wider, so I have no idea what she meant when she told you whatever she told you."

Their eyes widened in shock and outrage. They hadn't considered that before, and it was only too easy to imagine how Ma was still laughing at them. Annabelle MacManus had gotten the best of her boys again.

"Sorry," Renata added helpfully, trying not to smile at their scandalized expressions.

"Sorry!" Connor repeated as if he couldn't believe his ears. "We'll see sorry next time she calls! If she wasn't our fuckin mother-"

"Speak for yer-fuckin-self," Murphy cut in, sounding disgusted. "I'm adopted."

"She must have her reasons for not telling you," Renata said in an effort to reassure them and still fighting a smile.

"Oh, aye," Connor agreed, "she knows we want ta know, an' she likes ta keep valuable information ta herself." He leaned up to her and pulled her back to the bed and she settled comfortably beside him while Murphy rested his head on her shoulder again.

"You know," she said, "I'm sure none of this is what you had in mind when you went to the club that night, but thank you anyway. In case I never properly expressed my gratitude."

"I think ye've got yer own way of expressin gratitude," Connor replied, petting her again and trailing paths from her navel to her breasts.

"No, I'm serious," she insisted. "I know I've been a huge pain in the ass, and you damn sure didn't have to put up with me in the first place, let alone for this long. Thanks for _ that." _

"Hey, it's our pleasure."

"All in a day's work for warrior shepherds," Murphy added as he edged closer until there was no room between her body and his. He placed a few errant kisses to her shoulder and neck, occasionally parting his lips and brushing her skin with his tongue. Hell, this was _easy_. It just felt so natural to be there as they were, the three of them tangled up like they had been doing it all along, that he couldn't understand why they _hadn't_. He was quiet for a moment or two, wondering if he dared voice the question on his mind, then he finally asked, "Ye don't have ta go anywhere right away, do ye?"

"Why?" she asked. "Would you rather I stayed?"

"Well, ye could if ye wanted," Connor offered. "We wouldn't just throw ye out with nowhere ta go."

She smiled. "Good to know you boys don't hit it and quit it." She covered Connor's hand with hers and rested her cheek against the crown of Murphy's head. "I would hate to leave now that we're getting along so well," she joked.

"So, ye're stayin?"

She closed her eyes, listening to them breathe beside her and feeling more like herself for the first time in four years. Of all the unexpected things that had happened during the course of the night, that was perhaps the most surprising. So how could she walk away so soon after that? "I can think of a couple reasons to stick around..."

** Now, you've lost your minds if you think we're done yet, so keep your eyes peeled for more! Back into the trenches I go! How about a little moral support, and a review on your way out? **


	18. Compromising Positions

**Whew, I know, it's been awhile. Long story. Blame a crazy home life and work schedule, not to mention a search for a new and better job (wish me luck!). I don't know what you guys think, but I feel more and more pressure with each chapter, and it's a lot to live up to, to try and make every chapter better than the last. As such, this update has seen the greatest effort yet I've put into any installment of this story...which is why it's also the longest to date! There's a little more sizzle on the way before we return to our regularly scheduled plot already in progress, but these three insisted on having some fun before things get serious again. You don't mind, do you? Enjoy! :)**

Sunlight filled the apartment by the time Renata began to stir. She opened her eyes and turned to see Connor already wide awake and staring up at the ceiling. "Morning," she said.

He turned to her with a smile, putting a finger to his lips and gesturing past her to Murphy. She glanced over at him; he was still fast asleep, his hair hanging low across his forehead and a cowlick sticking up in the back. He looked so boyish and innocent, it was amusing in the wake of his performance the night before. "You mean I'm not the last one up for a change?" she whispered.

"Ye musta wore the boy out," Connor replied. "Don't think he's had a ride like that in awhile."

"Aw, poor guy..." She wriggled closer to Connor and laid her head on his chest, giving a sigh of contentment. "Can we let him sleep for a little longer?"

"Well, he's gotta wake up sooner or later," he told her, brushing his fingers up and down her spine.

"But not right away."

"Nah."

They lay quiet for a minute or two, then Connor ventured to ask, "Was this your plan all along?"

"What, you mean this?" she replied, reaching her hand under the sheets to close around his cock.

He tried to sound casual, but his voice went hoarse and gravelly. "Aye, somethin like that..." _ Steady there, MacManus..._ He had woken up hard, a condition exacerbated by her lying naked beside him, and it wouldn't take much to finish him off...but there was no need for her to know that. At least, not yet.

"Well, after the first day or so, I started thinking it would be interesting to fuck you both," she confessed, beginning to squeeze and stroke as she talked and trying to find the right pressure. "I didn't expect to stay long after we got Reg, though. I thought you might be glad to get rid of me by then."

"Mighta crossed our minds a couple a times," he told her. It took a bit of effort to focus on the conversation with her hand busy under the covers, and after a moment of her handling he gave up on talking altogether and concentrated on her, guiding her efforts until it was just right. "Ah, fuck, girl, that's got it," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Like this?" she confirmed, sitting up in the bed and pulling back the blanket as she held the speed and stroke.

"Aye."

She smiled and ran her free hand over his chest and stomach, admiring the beautifully toned muscles. "I was worried for awhile," she said. "I thought I'd never get you boys off the straight and narrow." Her fingers ghosted over his chiseled abs, then she leaned forward to replace fingers for lips, never forming proper kisses but rather brushing his skin and breathing in his heady, masculine scent. He lay still, tense with expectation as he waited for her next move while drinking in the sensations stirred by her care. If she kept up in this vein, he'd be finished before he stopped enjoying it.

"Admit it, though, you've wanted to put me through the headboard for ages now," she urged, lifting her head to watch his face. She liked the subtle shifts of expression she saw there, growing more pronounced as he neared the end...the way he breathed a little heavier every time, and how he strove to keep his eyes open and on her, the pale blues glassy with lust. He didn't answer right away, and she stilled her hand with a wicked grin. "Come on, admit it."

He groaned in frustration, slightly irritated he hadn't predicted some kind of game. "Ye're a cruel woman, Renata Malone."

She continued to smile and ran her hand up over his stomach and chest, her meaning plain. She wanted truth from the man himself, and she wouldn't give in until it was hers. He relented immediately, the words coerced from him but still recklessly honest. "Aye, I've wanted ta turn ye inside out an' upside down an' fuck ye six ways ta Sunday ever since ye got here."

"Really?" she asked, sounding amused. "That long?"

"Fuckin close enough. Are ye happy?"

Why hadn't he noticed before how fucking sexy that smile was? And why did it suddenly make him feel he was in deep shit? "I'm ecstatic," she replied. "Now don't move."

"What are ye doin?"

"Relax, boyo, you're in good hands."

His pulse quickened and his cock throbbed. He was definitely in deep shit. Something in that smile made it plain that she was about to drive him fucking insane, and that he would enjoy every second of it.

She scooted farther down the mattress and crouched between his knees, her hands trailing back down along his chest and stomach. She paused before she reached his cock, circling the shaft with her fingers and fondling the testicles with her free hand. Her touch was light and he was still so sensitive that he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to endure it. She locked eyes with him, her pleasure at his reaction plainly visible. "You're not going to tap out on me, are you, Mr. MacManus?" she teased.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment and took a deep breath, not trusting himself to speak. She alternated between the strokes he had showed her and the caresses that tormented him so badly until he was shaking with desperate energy and sweat beaded across his brow. It took more and more effort to pull air into his lungs and he felt dizzy between her attentions and the lack of oxygen. As if from a distance he heard her ask softly, "Are you still breathing, Connor?"

"Aye..." He felt the word pass from his lips, though he couldn't be sure he had spoken after all. Fuck, he was almost there...if she'd only quit teasing him...

Without a word, she took her hands away and before he could protest he felt her mouth, her lips warm and soft on his cock and her tongue stroking his balls, then she swallowed him whole.

He gasped aloud and nearly came then and there, but she was just as unrelenting with him as he'd been with her the night before. For several long moments she did no more than hold him in her mouth, and only when he was a heartbeat away from begging her for dear life did she slowly begin to suck, lightly moving her tongue up and down the underside of his cock. She slid back along the length of him, sucking harder and swirling her tongue around the head before taking him deeper into her mouth again, going as leisurely as if she had all the time in the world and as determinedly as if she meant to take full advantage of it.

He cursed in every language he knew and threaded his fingers through her hair, clutching tighter with every passing second. His grip on self-control slipped a little more every time she drew back on him, when her suction was strongest, and he gave an involuntary jerk, thrusting farther into her mouth and letting out a guttural moan as he hit the back of her throat.

She stopped and pulled away, looking up at him with her gray eyes shining devilishly. "This will take longer if you don't hold still," she warned him.

"Christ, woman," he nearly whimpered, honestly surprised he still had wits for speech. "What the fuck are ye tryin ta do ta me?"

There was that fucking smile again, like she was _ enjoying _ this, the heartless she-devil. She stroked one fingertip along the length of his cock, hardly even touching him and yet sending shock waves straight through him wherever she made contact, and it was so quiet in the loft she barely had to whisper, "Payback's a bitch."

He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to keep breathing, and the words formed themselves at the forefront of his mind: _ Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee... _

That wicked tongue circling the head of his cock...

_ Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus... _

Those lips, temptation made flesh, parting to take him back in...

_ Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death... _

It certainly felt like death, waiting for her to cut him loose already. Unable to take another second of it, he clutched at her hair again and burst out, "Jesus Christ, Renata, stop fuckin around!"

She finally relented and release came so hard and so fast he thought for a moment he was about to pass out. The room spun around him and left him flat, powerless to move and still waiting to catch his breath. He heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the farthest extremities of his body. _ Amen. _

"Do you always pray during sex, or is that reserved for blow jobs?"

The room came back into focus as she crawled back up to her place beside him on the bed, propping herself up on her elbow and leaning her head on her hand.

"Was that out loud?" he asked breathlessly.

"Sure was, sunshine. Is that a Catholic thing?"

"Is it a Protestant thing ta make a religious experience outta blow jobs?" he countered.

"Is that a compliment?"

"As God is my witness, sweetheart."

"Oh, watch it. That sounds like blasphemy to me."

He tried to laugh but all that came out was a shallow exhalation. "Just somethin else ta confess later," he replied.

"Mm, I'll bet. I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that one." She lifted her hand and flattened her palm on his chest, tracing patterns across his skin with her fingertips. "Was it worth it?"

"Aye," he replied, "but I'll go ye one better."

"Oh yeah?"

He shook off his lethargy and turned her onto her back, leaning down to kiss and nuzzle her neck. She threaded her fingers through his hair and leaned up, getting closer to those lips. "Well, that's nice, but no fireworks yet," she informed him.

"Just hold yer fuckin horses," he told her. "Ye've had yer fun, now it's my turn."

Well, that sounded promising to her. He moved down across her collarbone and to her breasts, and she drew in a sharp breath as he circled her nipple with his tongue, adding a few more kisses until she moaned with the ache. He nipped at her soft flesh with his teeth, and recalling his words from the night before she didn't try to stifle her gasp of surprise and delight. "Connor..."

He kept going down, lips and tongue crossing her navel, until he was between her legs. He glanced up at her, resting a hand on her thigh, and there was that certain light in his eyes she was starting to recognize that illuminated his entire face whenever he had set his mind to giving her hell. Oh yeah, that looked promising... He smiled before bowing his head again and drawing the blanket over himself.

She couldn't see him, but she could sure as hell _ feel _ him, starting with a few light kisses to tantalize, then the first strokes of his tongue, gentle enough to provoke shivers before turning bolder and more purposeful. She closed her eyes and smiled in contentment as sensation pulsed through her veins, certain he planned to tease her as mercilessly as ever but resigned to suffer when it felt so good. He began to experiment, moving in alternately softer and rougher undulations until he hit the right pattern and she gasped, "Like that, just like that..."

He took her cue and carried on, ever aware of her and her body's responses. If he was trying to learn her reactions, she couldn't have asked for a more attentive student. He quickly adapted to her rhythm, then glided a finger into her and her shrill cry caught in her throat. She clutched at the pillow beneath her head and bent her knee, the blanket forming a tent over his figure hidden underneath it, and he ran his free hand along her leg before curling the finger inside her and stroking. She let out a long, deep breath, letting her senses slowly overwhelm her. "My God, you're good at this..."

He took his time building her up, then just when she felt herself about to let go, he stopped. She let out a groan of frustration as he withdrew his finger and reverted to his earlier kisses, giving her just enough to make her squirm. "You're a cruel man, Connor MacManus."

Another kiss and he murmured, "Trust me," then began again.

The moment's reprieve had forestalled the end, but it made the returning rush all the more consuming. He knew just how to use his fingers and tongue to get the strongest reaction from her, moving at an accelerated pace and giving her a greater thrill than ever; where there were sparks before were now the fireworks she had been looking for. She couldn't have held back her moans if she tried anymore, quaking beneath him and tossing her head from side to side. "Connor, don't stop...oh God, don't you dare stop..."

_ Almost there... _

In the next breath the world fell away, as it often does as such a precipice, leaning so far over the edge that gravity has its way and sends mind, body and soul spiraling into freefall. It took her with a vengeance, leaving her twisting and writhing as she tumbled wildly through space. "Oh God," she burst out in a desperate whisper, rising to a shout, "God, Connor...oh fuck..._Connor!" _ His free hand curled around her hip to steady her but he didn't relent, and at the peak of intensity her body bowed upward, lifting head and shoulders off the bed as if drawn forward by invisible wires, throwing her head back as she cried out to the ceiling.

All too soon, the world righted itself and she fell back to earth, dropping limp as a rag doll to the bed. Connor lingered a little longer, bestowing kisses that seemed to lead her back to reality again, and she opened heavy-lidded eyes to see Murphy watching the proceedings with one eyebrow raised quizzically.

She heaved a sigh. "Sure, _ now _ he wakes up."

"Kinda hard ta sleep through the fuss ye were makin," he replied, sounding vaguely amused, though his voice had a tell-tale edge to it and his pupils were dilated.

"What's that?" Connor asked. He drew the blanket off his head and saw his brother staring at him, and gave him a cherry grin. "Mornin, Murph," he greeted. "Sorry ta wake ye."

"At least ye didn't set me on fire this time." He rubbed blearily at his eyes and sat up, saying, "Thought ye musta been goin home ta Jesus, the way she was carryin on. I didn't know ye were performin an exorcism."

"Is that what you Catholics call it?" Renata asked lightly.

"Sure," Connor replied, moving back up to where she lay and sitting propped up on one elbow. "If it doesn't look like demons are bein cast outta the poor and lust-afflicted, ye're doin somethin wrong."

"Then in that case, my name is Legion, for we are many."

"Well, ye heard the lady," Murphy said, edging closer with all traces of sleep vanished from his eager eyes. "My turn."

"Later," Connor informed them. "We gotta get movin."

"Come on, just a few minutes," Renata pleaded. "I've got more demons that need casting out."

"What she said," Murphy chimed in.

Connor shrugged. "I feel bad for ye, but it oughta teach ye not ta sleep late, won't it?"

"What kind of hedonist are you?" she demanded.

He flashed his most charming smile.

She rolled her eyes and sat up, pulling Murphy closer and planting a kiss on his cheek. "We can play Russian roulette sometime," she promised.

"An' what the fuck's _ that _s'posed ta mean?" he inquired, the gleam in his eyes betraying his curiosity.

"Figure it out and we'll talk," she said, getting out of bed and searching the floor for her clothes. The brothers sat up a little straighter, watching her traipse naked around the room and slowly putting her clothes on. She sat down on the couch to lace her shoes, then reached for the closest bottle of booze, holding it up to the light to look at the contents. "We're going to have to restock," she announced. "You boys can put down a shit ton of liquor."

"You helped," Murphy reminded her. "Ye finished most a yer shit on yer own."

"Speakin a which," Connor broke in, "I just wanna talk serious a bit."

"Fire away," Renata replied, taking the last cigarette from the pack on the table and lighting it.

He straightened up again and said, "It's a bit late ta be worryin over it, but last night an' all...I mean, ye drank at least as much as the rest of us, an' maybe ye weren't in too good a state ta be thinkin too clear about what ye were doin; none of us were, come ta think of it."

She sat watching him, smoking calmly. She had an idea where this was going, if he would quit trying to be a gentleman and just get to the point.

Murphy beat him to it, reading his mind and stating it plainly. "We just wouldn't wanna have pushed an advantage if yer judgement wasn't what it shoulda been."

She shook her head, bemused. "You wait until _ after _ you go down on me to bring this up."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. "He's fuckin retarded like that."

"Yeah, no shit. Blonde moment?"

"Ye bet yer ass."

"Hey," Connor cut in defensively, "it's serious fuckin shit, Murph."

"Aye, ye're right, it is..." They both turned their eyes to her, looking tense and expectant.

She smiled at both of them. "The chivalry is adorable," she informed them, "but it's making shit weird when it doesn't have to be."

"Ye beat a guy ta death with a golf club, an' _ this _ is weird?"

She shrugged and repeated, "It doesn't have to be." She flicked ash off the end of the cigarette, took another drag, and went on, "I'm just going to be frank, in case either of you haven't gotten it through your thick heads. What happened last night has been in the cards for awhile now, and if we all had to get wasted to do something about it, so be it. I've done worse things, sober."

They both smiled slightly, sensing the humor and the seriousness of her words.

"You two have been thinking about it at least as long as I have, and we all know it. Take the booze out of the equation, and it would have happened anyway. It might have taken a little longer, but sooner or later... Can you honestly deny it?"

They didn't answer, and they didn't have to. All three of them had shared that feeling last night, that getting into bed was not only a natural occurrence after the way things had grown between them, but a logical one. No other scenario made any sense. She could have left as planned, but whether she would have gone far, or if they would have let her go without a word... No, she was right, and from the look on her face, she knew it. She winked at them, and just like that, all was well.

"You bring up a good point, though," she told them. "Last night was irresponsible as hell."

"How so?" Connor asked.

"We didn't use anything."

There was a moment of comprehension, followed by identical, guilty expressions. Renata looked from one twin to the other and went on, "I know that stuff is against your religion, but-"

"Fuck that," Murphy interrupted. "Our ma didn't raise any fuckin fools. She always said she'd rather we break a few rules than catch somethin or raise a kid we didn't plan on makin."

"An ounce a prevention, ye might say," Connor added. "An' she swore ta Christ she wouldn't have any grandbabbies from any one-night stands."

Renata laughed. "She sounds like quite a woman, your ma."

"Understatement a the century, love," Murphy replied.

"Well, we can't let her down, so I guess we'll have to stock up on some other supplies before last night happens again."

"Ye're plannin an encore?" Connor asked.

"You're complaining after the prelude you got this morning?"

"What fuckin prelude?" Murphy demanded. "How long was I fuckin asleep?"

"How long did ye plan on stayin?" Connor overrode him.

"Until we're sick of each other, I guess."

He paused and felt Murphy do the same beside him, both of them absorbing the implications. Neither he nor his twin wanted her to leave yet, and if she was talking about buying contraceptives, then she wasn't planning on walking out anytime soon. Knowing her, the woman who trusted no one, there had to be something of significance there, but with the previous night's excesses still flowing heavy in his veins he was ill-equipped to reason what it might be. One look at Murphy, and it was clear he was no better off.

She finished her cigarette and stubbed the end out on the concrete floor, then sat back and gave them a long look. "Are you two going to get a move on, or what? If you plan on staying in bed buck naked all day, at least let me join you."

They both got out of bed and started to get dressed, and she gave that wolfish smile as she watched, admiring the view.

"Ye know somethin, Murph," Connor said, picking his jeans off the floor, "I don't reckon she respects us as men. Shelter, vengeance, a fuckin great lay, I think that's all we are ta her."

"Awful sexist, don't ye think?" Murphy inquired as he drew on his boxer shorts.

"I am what I am," she replied simply. "Would you rather I change my wicked ways?"

"Nah," he told her. "I like yer ways."

"Aye," Connor agreed.

She widened her grin and blew them a kiss.

* * *

Connor parked the car on the street outside Rocco's mother's house and killed the engine. "He sounded serious last night," he said, "so let's see what he wants."

"He won't want me around for much of anything," Renata pointed out. "I'll just wait out here."

"I'll sit with ye," Murphy offered. "Hate ta leave ye by yerself."

"Really?"

"We fuckin promised, remember?"

She smiled.

"Suit yerselves," Connor told them. He handed Murphy the keys and got out of the car, going to the front door and ringing the bell. Rocco answered it wearing a flannel bath robe over a t-shirt and underwear; it was clear he hadn't been out of bed for long.

"What are you doing over here?" he asked. "It's early."

"It's afternoon, Roc," Connor replied. "Ye wanted ta talk business?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot..." He frowned, glancing out at the car. "Where's Murph?"

Connor nodded towards the Lincoln. "Sittin with Renata."

Rocco rolled his eyes and they went inside.

They walked through the living room past Rocco's mother, an elderly woman seated in a recliner in front of the television, watching a soap opera and holding a Yorkshire terrier in her lap. "David," she called without turning her head, "who was that at the door?"

"A friend of mine," Rocco answered. "I'll be in the kitchen."

"What friend?"

Rocco heaved a sigh. "Just a friend, Mom."

"It better not be that slut girlfriend, or one of those gangsters you run around with!" The Yorkie growled and yipped as if in agreement, sensing his mistress's disapproval.

"No, Mom, it isn't," Rocco insisted with an annoyed huff. Connor grinned at the situation and Rocco shot him an irritable glare.

"You know I don't want that riff raff in my house!"

"I _ know, _ Mom!"

"And try to keep the noise down, I'm watching my stories!"

"Fine!" Still grumbling, Rocco led the way to the kitchen and Connor followed close behind. "Seems like a charming lady," he remarked jestingly.

"Ha," Rocco replied humorlessly. "Just interrupt _ The Young and the Restless _ and see how charming she is." He drew a chair out from the table and sat down, scratching at his beard. "So, here's the deal," he said, "I think we oughta head over this Saturday and sort this fucker out. I'm telling you, I haven't slept a wink since we decided to clip this one."

"Sure, just find out what all ye can an' let us know," Connor replied. "Can ye do that without tippin anyone off?"

"You bet your fuckin ass I can. I know everyone, not all of them will rat me out to Pappa Joe-"

"David!" came a shout from the living room, "the remote is broken!"

"What do you mean, broken?" he yelled back.

"What do you think I mean? I'm pushing buttons and nothing is happening!"

Cursing under his breath, Rocco left the kitchen and disappeared down the hallway to the living room. Connor sat patiently at the table, casting his eyes around the immaculate kitchen until Rocco stormed back in, muttering to himself. He went to the refrigerator and took some fresh batteries from a box on a shelf and fitted them inside the remote, tossing the old ones into the trash. He took the remote back to the living room, then returned to his place at the table. "So, what's the deal with that broad Malone?" he asked. "You driving her to the bus station, or something?"

Connor shook his head, trying to brush it off.

"Well, she _ is _ leaving, isn't she?"

"Not right away," he replied evasively. "She's been through a lot a shit the past few days, she oughta have a chance ta adjust."

"And what the fuck's that got to do with you?"

Connor shrugged. "We decided ta let her stay longer, is all."

Rocco stared long and hard at him, and Connor could almost see the gears turning in his friend's head. "You fucked her, didn't you?" Connor hesitated and he pressed, "Don't lie, man! You _ did, _ didn't you?"

"Well...aye, we did."

"_ We? _ You mean _ both _ of you?"

"Aye. Ye got a problem with it?"

"Problem? Holy fuck! You mean _ both _ of you fuckin sons of bitches-" He slapped his hand down on the table. "I knew it! I fuckin _ knew_ it!"

"David! Shut the hell up in there!"

"Fine, Mom!" He continued to stare, looking dumbstruck, exasperated, and a little impressed. "Holy shit," he muttered. "When the fuck did _ this _ happen?"

"Just last night," Connor replied. Well, and earlier that very morning...he already seemed to have memorized the feel of her hand on his body and the taste of her on his tongue...

"What, were you just waiting for me to fuckin leave so you could get busy?" Rocco asked.

"She mighta been. She started it."

"You gotta be shitting me. I always knew that bitch was crazy..." It seemed the more the news sank in, the more impressed he grew, and more eager for details. "Spill it," he said. "Who went first?"

"I did."

"Was she good? What kind of shit is she into?"

"Roc, it was one fuckin night-"

"You're goddamn right it was!"

"An' it's not that big a deal."

"The fuck it ain't! Why is she staying, then?"

As to that, Connor found it difficult to answer. Why, indeed? For his part, he still felt responsible for her, still carrying memories of her too drunk and injured to stand straight. Then there were those moments of intimacy before they even slept together, easy companionship and flirtation that further solidified the queer bond they had. And yes, she _ was _ good in bed...all that and more made for his argument against her rushing off to wherever she decided to go. Her staying with him and Murphy felt right in the same way their mission did, defying logic and reason, only making sense when accepted as the only course. It had to be felt to be believed, and as such it was nothing he could explain to Rocco. All he could think to say was, "Why the fuck not?"

* * *

The weather had warmed slightly, so it wasn't quite as cold in the car, especially with the refitted window to keep the chill out and the warmth in. Murphy and Renata sat in companionable silence for a moment, then he brought out a new pack of cigarettes and handed her one. She leaned up to the front seat and he lit it for her, then took one for himself. "So I assume ye didn't mean traditional Russian roulette," he remarked, exhaling.

"You've got to figure it out," she replied vaguely. "It takes the fun out of the game if I have to tell you."

"That's so?"

"Afraid so."

He nodded thoughtfully, pondering her meaning. "Between us," he said, as if it had only just occurred to him, "who was better? Honestly?"

"Nice try, Murph."

"No, really, I promise I won't tell Connor. It can be our secret."

She shrugged. "Honestly, then, I really couldn't tell you. You both have completely different styles. It's apples and oranges." She clamped her cigarette between her lips and clambered over the seat, joining him in the front of the car. "Tell me something, though," she said, "are you always so aggressive in the sack?"

He looked thrown off by the directness of her question. "I...er...fuck, I never thought about it...was I too rough?"

"Fuck no. It's good to be rough sometimes. It adds variety."

"Is that what you Protestants call it?"

She chuckled. "Not hardly. At least, not at my church. There were some conservative, judgmental bastards in there, and that's for sure. I felt less and less like I belonged as I grew older and wilder."

"Center a gossip, were ye?"

"Pretty much, especially after getting caught in a compromising position with the preacher's son."

Murphy laughed. "Have ye no shame, then, sweetheart?"

"I sure did after Nana got hold of me," she replied, grinning at the memory. "She chewed my ass so hard I had bite marks for weeks." She shrugged and took another pull from her cigarette. "I decided awhile back I hate religion. People so worried about the believer they think their neighbor should be they overlook their own hypocrisy, who needs that shit? Faith, on the other hand, that's a different story. I respect people with faith, whatever they choose to put that faith into. Bottom line, my beliefs are my own fucking business."

"It's a good way ta keep it," Murphy told her.

"Yeah, and I said as much to a Sunday school teacher once. As soon as word got out about that little disagreement, I hit the shit list."

"Another compromising position, ye say?"

"Yep." She ground her cigarette butt into the ashtray and reached up to comb her fingers through his hair. He met her eyes and asked, "Why are ye always doin that?"

She gave a soft hum in reply. "I like it. Do you want me to cut it out?"

"Nah. I kinda like it too."

She gave a small, provocative smile and pressed closer and he kissed her, his tongue meeting hers as she opened her mouth. What was it about kissing her that made him so dizzy, his brain spinning out of control while his body rushed to respond to all she offered? It was just as intoxicating as he'd imagined it would be, and more addicting than he had anticipated. She drew away after a moment and whispered into his ear, "I was just thinking about that compromising position..."

"With yer teacher, or the preacher's kid?" he asked.

By way of answer, she lowered her hand from his hair and slipped inside his coat, laying her palm flat against his chest with his shirt in between. She nipped lightly at his earlobe as her hand wandered lower and reached under the shirt, and he shivered slightly when she curled her fingers just enough to brush his skin with her nails. She moved from his ear to his lips again and ran her hand down his stomach, reaching farther and farther to deftly unzip his jeans.

He lifted his hands and twisted his fingers into her hair, shifting restlessly in the seat. He plunged his tongue in and out of her mouth as she slowly, oh so slowly, unbuckled his belt, and he shifted his hands to her hips, pulling her into his lap. She wrapped her hand around his cock as she rocked against him, her fingers brushing too fucking softly over his erection while her motion sparked a growl low in his chest, and he held her tighter against him and mirrored her rhythm.

She pulled away again and asked, "Have you always liked to watch?"

"What's that?" he asked, barely focusing on her words when she kept moving against him like that, slower than he would have preferred but still enough to get him riled. If she kept it up like that...

She raised her free hand, brushed at his hair again, and repeated, "Have you always liked to watch?" He didn't answer at first, so she went on, "I saw the way you looked when it was me and Connor, and again this morning, and I'd like to assume it has nothing to do with watching your brother fuck."

A laugh escaped him. "Don't even fuckin joke about that, that's fuckin sick."

"So, what is it, then?"

"I dunno..." Sex had always been in-the-moment for him, thought and awareness consumed by need and fulfillment. Until watching Renata with Connor, he had never fully appreciated the beauty of desire and ecstasy. He had never stood outside and seen with his own eyes something so vivid and intense, and the memory playing over and over in his head made him harder than ever.

She noticed the physical reaction and smiled as she guessed the inspiration. "So, that's your kink," she teased. "Don't worry, I won't tell Connor." She leaned in to kiss him again and he groaned as she caught his bottom lip in her teeth while the hand on his cock tightened its grip. Never breaking her hold on him, she shifted out of his lap and into the seat beside him, and he took his mouth away from hers to ask, "Where the fuck are ye goin?"

The shadow of a smile crossed her face and she replied, "I'm giving you something else to watch." His heart nearly pounded its way out of his chest as she bent her head to his lap and ran her tongue from the head of his cock to his balls, then drew back just enough to look up and ask him, "You want it rough?"

His vocal chords were nearly paralyzed, he was so aroused, but he rasped, "Surprise me."

She lowered her head again and he drew in a deep, shuddering breath as she set herself to her task, taking him into her mouth and stroking with her tongue before she began to suck, lightly at first and gradually harder. She listened to his ragged breathing for a moment, heard his soft groan as she reached to use her fingers where she couldn't get him with her mouth, sucking harder than ever and paying close attention to him for any signs she was pushing too far. She kept at it a moment longer, wondering how much farther she dared to go, then carefully scraped her teeth on the underside of his cock.

He let out a sharp gasp and clutched at her hair, and she wondered if that was perhaps _ too _ rough, but he held her in place and muttered, "Fuckin hell, girl, ye're good..." He rocked in the seat, pushing himself deeper, and she obligingly swallowed him to the base.

Murphy felt ready to jump out of his skin. Her hands were all over him, cupping and stroking his balls while her mouth-Jesus Christ, her _ mouth. _ Her suction was timed perfectly to the motion of her tongue, and he could swear his heart was pounding to her rhythm, skipping erratically when she used her teeth and nails. It was like she fucking _ knew, _ giving pleasure so intense it was almost painful and knowing which threshold was too much. He tightened his fingers in her hair, closing his eyes, infrequent groans and soft curses punctuating his uneven breathing. She had him right on the edge, just about to fall, and all he could do was hold onto her.

Renata glanced up, still busy but seeking his reaction. It was a shot in the dark, being so forceful with him, but her instincts hadn't failed her. He was right where she wanted him, hovering the thin line between ecstasy and agony, and the slightest push would send him toppling in either direction. His head was leaned back and his eyes were closed, his brow furrowed and jaw clenched tightly, then something in his face shifted and evolved as the tension edged closer to the breaking point. Heat pulsed through her veins at the sight, settling in damp arousal and yearning emptiness in her core. Yes, there was something to be said for watching...

"Christ, Renata, that's it..." He couldn't stop it if he tried and he sure as fuck didn't want to, it was as irresistible and merciless as she was. The rush was swift as a river in his veins and he was caught in the current, drowning in pleasure even as he emptied himself into her. She drew away at last and he opened his eyes in time to see her swallow, her grin back in place. "You weren't watching," she accused.

He heaved a sigh and leaned back in the seat. "Sometimes," he replied breathlessly, "ye just gotta close yer eyes."

Her wolfish grin softened into something warmer and even more beautiful. The feeling was as unexpected as everything else about her, but he found he appreciated the change.

There was a loud tap on the passenger side window and they both gave a start, Renata sitting up quickly and Murphy zipping his jeans. They looked outside the car to see Connor walking around to the driver's side, opening the door and sliding into the seat. "Been enjoin yerselves?" he asked ironically.

"Wouldna been if ye'd knocked a little sooner," Murphy informed him.

"No worries, I waited 'til it looked like ye were finished."

He nodded absently at such consideration, lifting a trembling hand to brush his hair back from his forehead.

Connor looked him over, smiling his amusement. "Ye need ta go a bit easier on him," he told Renata. "Keep it up like this, poor boy'll be in his grave before the week's out."

Renata examined the glazed eyes and flushed skin, saying, "He'll go with a smile on his face, at any rate."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer, giving her a kiss on the temple. She smiled and leaned against him, resting her hand on Connor's leg. "How did it go with Rocco?" she asked.

"He's gonna try an' learn more for us," Connor replied as he drove away from the house. "Won't be a few days yet 'til we'll be ready for anythin."

"A few days?" she repeated, running her hand along the inside of his thigh, then moving higher.

He tightened his grip on the wheel, refusing to look at her. "Aye. He'll call us when there's somethin ta say."

"So until then we're just left to our own devices?" she asked. Her hand drifted over his hip and under his shirt, brushing across his abs before reaching into his jeans. He clenched his jaw stubbornly, still not looking at her; she kept reaching, and when she found what she was looking for, she squeezed.

He jerked the wheel and nearly sent them into incoming traffic. "Christ's fuckin sake, woman, I'm tryin ta drive!"

She grinned. "Hurry up and get us home, then." She cast a sideways look at Murphy and added, "Your brother has a hell of a favor to return."

**I swear, the devil is in the details for sure, and there were lots and lots of details in there, the obvious and the not-so. Did you pick up on all of them? Scavenger hunts for hidden nuggets aside, what do you think? Sexy? Funny? Both? None of the above? I hope you liked Rocco's mother, or at least how I envisioned her; that scene was a lot of fun to write. Talk to me! Reviews are love, and I love hearing from you!**


	19. A Chance

** This just in...foreshadowing is a bitch! Trying to balance foreshadowing with mysterious secrets that have to stay secret and mysterious for a little longer? That, to quote George R.R. Martin, is a bitch and two bastards!**

**Well**,** I hope everyone's 2016 is off to a good start. I recently started a new job at Starbucks and am juggling two more jobs along with that one, so...yeah. It's interesting. LOL Try as I might, this just didn't want to get done in a timely manner, but hopefully it works. It took a while before the boys and our girl realized we do, in fact, have a story that needs some attention and we need to give up the gratuitous hanky panky. There's a change of pace on the horizon and some interesting (I hope) stuff on the way! In the meantime, see if you can spot the All Saints Day reference... Enjoy!**

Renata breathed deeply and let out an exaggerated sigh. "I love the smell of unwashed Irishman in the morning."

"More like evenin now," Murphy pointed out, seeing the fading light through the windows.

The three of them lay in bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets. Renata rested her head on Murphy's chest and Connor lay fitted against her, one arm wrapped around her waist. He studied the skin of her back, then brought a finger up to the tattoo on her shoulder, tracing the flower petals ever so lightly. She shivered and giggled. "Quit it, that tickles."

"What is it?" he asked.

"An iris, my granddad's favorite flower."

He leaned closer to read the numbers inked in along the stem. "An' what're these dates?"

"The earlier one is for the day he died, and the more recent is for my grandmother. Mom was pissed about the tattoo when she found out, but she got over it. I'm pretty sure I did something worse later that pissed her off even more." She paused reflectively, remembering all of her teenage rebellions and that one rash decision that landed her in Boston in the first place, where still more shit happened. "She'd be even more pissed if she could see me now..."

"Ye mean shackin up with yer ex's neighbors?" Murphy asked, reaching a hand through the tangle of bodies to give her backside a squeeze.

"Well, for one thing," she agreed, a grin slowly spreading across her face. "But...shit, boys, look how I turned out! I nailed the problem child routine to a tee, didn't I?"

"S'pose so," he replied, moving his hand to twist a lock of her hair around his finger. "Ran away from home, became a stripper..."

"An' a drug dealer," Connor added, running his fingers up and down the curve of her waist and hip.

"Ye killed a man," Murphy went on.

"An' ye fuckin drink too much," Connor concluded.

"Well, I've always done that," she said. "That's nothing new."

"Enh. Maybe not." He mulled over his next words, choosing them carefully before speaking. "Ye weren't takin pills back then, were ye?"

"No, I wasn't," she replied. "I didn't pick up that habit until recently."

"Until Reg an' Marcus, ye mean?"

A long pause, then, "Yeah. Pretty much."

"Was it that bad in that place, that ye had ta do that?" Murphy asked, still winding his fingers through her hair.

The vision that flashed through her memory was the same as always, the same woman lying drugged and helpless, beaten and bloody, mortal terror stabbing through her eyes to leave deeper scars with every remembrance. The compulsion to force it aside surged like poison in Renata's veins, the anguish of the memory clouding her mind, and it was with an effort she struggled to tear her thoughts away. "Bad enough," she replied vaguely, refusing to elaborate. "It's over and done with, so no point in dwelling on it."

"An' how're ye handlin shit?" Connor asked. "Ye're not pukin yer guts out, but..."

"Am I jonesing, you mean?"

"If that's what ye call it, sure."

She stiffened as if in self-defense against the nagging urge that always came to visit when she went without a fix and the renewed onslaught of memory that drove her to use whenever she tried to stop, _ the dark room, the woman on the floor, the recognition in her hollow eyes before they deadened completely..._

"I'm trying not to make a big deal of it," she said. "The less I think about it, the smaller an issue it is."

Connor noted the feigned indifference in her voice, and it didn't coincide with the way she had tensed beneath his initial question. Whatever had driven her to such an extreme was a secret she wasn't about to share, and he didn't press for more information. He continued his exploration of her body, his palm curling over her hip bone and fingers brushing softly across her pelvis, never reaching any farther down, and he smiled as she wiggled against him. "You keep that up, you're going to drive me insane," she told him.

"Is that right?" he asked lightly. She was still so sensitive, and when he finally slipped his fingers inside her she shivered and drew in a sharp breath. He glanced over her shoulder and caught Murphy's eye, then winked. Murphy nodded, untangling his hand from her hair and bringing it down while the other came up, meeting at her breasts. He brushed her nipples with his thumbs until they hardened, then lowered his head and took one in his mouth.

His lips were as salacious as ever, and Connor's fingers were sure and skillful; she wove her fingers into Murphy's hair and held him to her breast, leaning her hips back into Connor and squirming between them as pleasure rose, their bodies hard as they pressed against her and thrilling her to the point of delirium.

Murphy reached farther down, his hand grazing against Connor's in silent communication; Connor complied and moved to allow room for him, one at her clit and the other delving deep into her body. She was just lucid enough to determine it was Connor stroking so sweet and easy, and Murphy going hard and fast until she wondered if she would break in half. She spasmed and clutched tighter at Murphy's hair; he winced and said, "Too rough."

"No it's not," she replied, focused on his fingers.

"Aye, it is," he retorted, loosening her grip with his free hand.

"I told ye, go easy on him," Connor said, a laugh coloring his tone. "He's a delicate little fuck, ye know." He leaned forward to slowly cover her neck with kisses, his fingers still circling. "So slippery," he whispered into her ear. "Ye like what we're doin?" She gave an inarticulate moan in response.

"Insane yet?" Murphy asked.

"Almost," she replied, forcing the words out in affirmation and a plea for release. Insanity was balanced on two distinct points, and with the brothers working together so easily, hardly a word spoken between them yet each in tune with the other's actions, she would topple in a matter of moments.

Murphy stared up at her, her eyes squeezed shut and her pretty mouth fallen open as she fought to breathe. He focused on that feature, her body so hot and wet around his fingers and so very like her mouth around his cock that his hands trembled with need. Over his shoulder, Connor watched him as if he knew what he was thinking; didn't he always? He nodded reassuringly, and Murphy turned his attention back to Renata.

Insane? The word hardly felt adequate as ecstasy burst upon her in identical waves. First one, then the other before the first had a chance to fade, and the power of them together shattered her conscious mind and stole away thought, leaving behind feeling and sensation in its purest form. Insane? Hardly. She felt...transcendent...

A blank calm settled in the wake of rapture, a delicious tingling chasing its way through her veins. Yes, transcendent was the word. She compared what she was feeling to being high, and suddenly the pills came up short. They would serve the purpose in a crisis and she would abide the consequences that came with them as long as she could escape her own head when her memory became too much to bear. The boys provided their own form of distraction, lifting her above the darkness in her mind and the guilt and despair to follow. The key difference was that with them, she didn't have to lose a part of herself. She wasn't too far gone in her method of forgetting, slipping farther away with every pill she took. With them, she was still Renata. With all of her flaws and sins, she could only be grateful for that.

She heard them talking on either side of her; _ Is that German? _ Then they stirred; Murphy drew away from her and Connor leaned close and murmured, "C'mon, love, we're not through yet." She opened her eyes and saw Murphy had stretched out on his back, watching her with a mixture of desire and apprehension, a curious plea in his eyes that both asked for permission and compelled obedience.

Connor rose, drawing her with him, and guided her to his brother, positioning her above him. "Let's try somethin a little different, aye?" he asked, moving into place behind her.

Different? Hardly aware of what she was doing, she straddled Murphy's hips and Connor wound his arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. The foggy delirium in her mind was dense with possibilities, and feeling Murphy hard beneath her and Connor in the same condition behind her, her imagination spiraled away with her. What exactly did they have in mind?

A touch from Connor drew her out of her thoughts and anchored her in the moment as he ran his hand along her side and came to rest at her hip. He kissed his way from her shoulder to her jaw and paused with his lips at her ear, whispering, "Murph's too delicate ta tell ye outright, but he liked the way ye sucked his cock earlier."

"Is that right?" she asked, lowering her eyes to Murphy while lifting her hand to twist her fingers into Connor's hair and hold him in place. It didn't take much to hold Murphy's attention; he couldn't take his eyes off her, and that was just as she wanted it.

"Aye," Connor replied. "I think he wants ye ta do it again."

"Does he?" She met Murphy's gaze and challenged him to speak, but he only stared, blue irises disappearing behind dilated pupils.

"Why don't ye ask him an' find out?"

Ask him, indeed. It hardly seemed necessary when he was looking at her like that. But maybe it _ was _ necessary...if either of the brothers liked dirty talk, she would put her money on Connor. The words were for him. She tilted her head to allow him more room to carry on with his kisses, giving Murphy plenty to see, and spoke to Murphy, giving Connor what he wanted to hear. "Is that what you want?" she asked, keeping her voice low and enticing. "Do you want me to suck your cock?"

The words had the desired effect as the man at her back clutched her tighter and rocked against her, and the man before her nearly purred his acquiescence. "Aye," he said, "I do..."

Connor unwrapped himself from her and gently urged her forward. "Ye heard him, girl," he said. "Don't disappoint him, now."

She edged back to kneel on the bed, Connor moving with her to give her room but never moving far away from her. She reached out with careful hands, languidly brushing her fingers along the inside of Murphy's thigh and traveling up towards his groin. "Rough?" she asked.

"Best try easy for now," Connor answered, "just ta be safe."

"Safe?" she asked, slightly amused. "Am I dangerous?"

"Aye, girl, ye are, an' ye fuckin know it."

"Do you always speak for him?"

"Just lookin out for his best interests."

"Just go along with it for now," Murphy told her in an undertone. "He likes ta pretend he's in charge...didn't know he'd take it this far, though." He added a conspiratorial wink and she grinned before bowing her head and taking him into her mouth.

Murphy heaved a sigh and relaxed beneath her, settling himself to be patient. Her aggression in the car had been just to his liking, but they had to take it slow right now. Connor had a plan for all three of them, and so far Murphy saw no reason to argue about it. He shifted his eyes between his twin and Renata; one watched the scene play out with a degree of calculation, waiting for the next move, and the other never looked away from him, daring him to keep his eyes open this time. She needn't worry. He had no intention of missing one second of this.

Seeing Renata go down on Murph was quite a turn-on, though wholly unnecessary at this point as far as Connor was concerned. He was ready to take a leaf from his brother's book and fuck her until she screamed as it was. He kept control, however, reaching for a fresh condom from the box they'd left discarded beside the bed and tearing the wrapper with his teeth. The shadow of a smirk crossed Murphy's face and Renata paused slightly at the noise; "Don't mind me," he told her as he put on the rubber. "Just take care a Murph." He met Murphy's gaze one more time and returned the smirk. They had never tried anything like this before, and it was sure to be an interesting experiment.

Renata was more and more convinced they were up to something and she had a dawning idea of what it was, but she didn't spare much thought for it just yet. She kept working on Murphy, paying no mind to Connor's stirrings behind her. He put his hands on her hips, steering her into position before moving her legs just so, and she offered no resistance, focusing her lips, tongue, and hands on his brother; it was a far step from what she'd done to him in the car but it didn't matter. If she was reading him right, he was consumed all the same.

Connor watched Murphy carefully, waiting for the right moment. He wanted to be sure his twin was well on his way before moving ahead. Murph was riveted on Renata, staring her down as she blew him, and judging by the look on his face she was doing a fucking good job of it. Out of the corner of Connor's eye, _aequitas _ flexed as Murphy clenched his fist, jaw tightening as he gritted his teeth and a low groan stirring from his chest to break the silence in the loft. He met Connor's eye and nodded. He was ready.

Moving slowly, Connor aligned his body with Renata's and pushed himself inside her. He felt her shiver and heard her soft gasp as for the moment she forgot all about Murphy, but he set one hand on her hip, brushing his thumb reassuringly across her skin. "Take care a Murph," he repeated. "Ye'll get as good as ye give."

Good God, they would be the death of her. She took her hands off Murphy and braced herself on the mattress, her senses swimming and her blood already tingling in her veins. She could feel Connor's hands warm on her skin, and the hard throbbing inside her where they were joined, her body tense and quivering in anticipation and her mind spinning with all of it at once...then the cool touch of Murphy's fingers at her temple, brushing her hair out of her eyes so he could look at her. "Ye better do as he says, sweetheart," he told her softly. "I'll be disappointed if ye leave me hangin."

Connor bowed low over her, curling his body around hers as he leaned close to her. "Take care a me brother," he whispered, one arm slipping around her waist again and his free hand tracing softly over her ribs and under her breasts. "I'll take care of you."

She felt nearly drunk with sensation, but she took a deep breath and sought a measure of clarity. She could handle these two and whatever they sent her way. She had done it so far, and she didn't intend to falter now. She turned back to Murphy and began again, suddenly determined to give him the best orgasm of his life.

A shudder tore through Murphy's entire body at the change in her, fierce and deliberate as she committed herself to torturing him. It wasn't quite her relentless performance from earlier, with the way she backed off every time he was about to come, but the way the pressure was building inside him, the end result would be even better. He groaned aloud and clutched at her hair as she took him to the edge again and pulled back just in time. "Fuckin hell..."

"_You doing good?" _ Connor asked, the Gaelic rough and clipped. He shifted his hands to Renata's hips and began to thrust slow and steady. Timing was everything, and Murphy would have to hold on and wait for them to catch up.

"_Aye, I'm good," _ Murphy replied, "_you crazy bastard." _ Leave it to Connor to come up with such a hare-brained scheme as the three of them climaxing at once, and it would be Murphy's luck to get caught in the mess. Though in all fairness, watching Renata try so hard to focus on him while Connor got busy fucking her, he had been in much worse messes before.

She didn't understand what they were saying, but Renata got the gist of Connor's plan, ambitious as it was. She had tried timed orgasms before but never under _ these _ circumstances, and if the boys hadn't either they would need all the help they could get. She eased up on Murphy, giving him just enough to keep him coasting, and reached down to her own body, fingers stimulating her clit as Connor kept pumping into her. He couldn't keep pussyfooting around; she caught Murphy's eye and glanced back over her shoulder, hoping he would get the hint.

He did. "She says hurry the fuck up or ye're shit outta luck," he told Connor.

"How the fuck do ye know that?" Connor shot back. "Is she tappin Morse code on yer cock?"

"Fuck you, I know shit!"

Renata had to concentrate to keep from laughing and she gave Murphy a sharp smack to shut him up. He drew in a quick breath and cursed softly and Connor warned her, "Watch out, sweetheart, I think he likes that a little too much."

"Shut up an' get a move on," Murphy growled. Despite his best efforts and all Renata could do, he would finish before too long if Connor didn't hurry.

Faster, harder, and there was still ground to make up. Connor left it to Renata to keep Murph and herself in the necessary suspense until the time was right, driving himself onward towards completion. This pace wasn't quite his style; he preferred to take his time when he was with a woman, but this rush...it was savage, coming on with a fury so potent he tightened his grip on her with bruising force. She tapped Murphy on the leg again and Murph turned eyes to him a moment later, words superfluous when the meaning was clear. "Almost," he replied. "Christ-almost-"

Renata felt him lose control and quickly helped Murphy to finish and only then did she let go, pushing herself over the edge along with them. Pure joy suffused through every inch of her body, the pleasure of fulfillment interwoven with the pleasure of knowing they all went together, just as the boys had planned; as they disentangled and settled back into bed, it was only too easy to see how they were pleased with themselves. "Job well done, fellas," she said in congratulation, leaning back against Connor while Murphy edged close until they were face-to-face and closed his eyes with a sigh. She lifted a hand to comb her fingers through his hair and a smile quirked his lips.

"Although," she added, a sly note creeping into her voice, "somebody didn't quite keep up his end of the bargain."

"Who?" Connor asked, still lucid but sounding more and more weary.

"You," she replied. "I took care of your brother like you asked, and I still had to take care of myself."

"Ye gotta be a man of yer word, Connor," Murphy told him without opening his eyes. "'Specially when ye give yer word to a lady."

Connor reached past Renata to swat his brother over the head, then wrapped his arm around her waist and held her tighter against him. "I'll get ye twice next time ta make up for it," he promised.

"Deal."

"I know we asked a bit much of ye..."

"Connor, I don't think there's a woman on earth who would complain about that."

"Still, if we're ever pushin ye too far-"

"Don't worry about it. Trust me to tell you when you need to back off."

A brief pause, then, "Deal."

Silence fell over them as fatigue settled in and Renata focused on her companions, their warm bodies on either side of her and the sound of their steady breathing giving the present enough weight to push back her thoughts of the past. No need to hide from what tormented her when it didn't weigh so heavily. It was astounding, the power it had to pull her back into the darkest corners of her mind, to crush her tired soul into dust, to strip her down to the lowest form of herself in existence and leave her desperate for escape...

It wasn't like that when she was with Connor and Murphy. With them, she had a chance to stay one step ahead of that darkness-to possibly even drive it away for good. She thought again of their mission, a crusade against the evil of the world, and there was a burst of crystalline understanding within her that she'd been chasing the wrong thing. It wasn't escape she needed, but atonement, absolution, and perhaps she could find it here at last. _ That _ was the chance she needed. With the echoes of ecstasy ringing through her body and the first glimpse of hope she'd had in a long time rising in her spirit, she spoke. "I want to join you."

"What's that?" Connor asked, half-asleep.

"I want to be part of what you're doing," she said. "There are too many people out there like Reg and Marcus who think they can hurt people and get away with it because no one will stand up to them. Someone needs to make sure they get what's coming to them."

"There _ were _ four musketeers," Murphy remarked.

"And you really think just you two standing alone can save the world? You need all the help you can get."

"Ye ran off an' left us hangin yesterday," Connor told her. "Hardly counts as helpin, ye think?"

"I know. It won't happen again."

"Renata..." He turned her to look at him, his gaze serious and questioning. "Ye're free ta go where ye will, anywhere in the world. Ye have that much back now. Why stay here an' commit yerself to a cause that was never yers ta start with?"

"Because I know what's out there," she replied, "and I can't close my eyes and pretend it doesn't exist. Maybe...maybe this is what I'm here for, how all of this was supposed to happen. You guys believe that stuff, right?"

"Aye, we do."

"Then maybe...I mean, I'm in a position to change things now, to make them better, and it would be wrong not to now that I can. We end up where we're meant. You told me that once."

He nodded. "I seem ta recall sayin somethin like that."

"Well then, is it too crazy to think that every bad decision I've ever made led to the chance to do something worth a shit?"

Murphy edged forward to put his head on her shoulder. "Crazy as hell," he said. "Crazier still, it makes sense, dependin what ye have the balls ta believe."

She thought of what Rocco said as they sat in the car in front of the church, then said, "I believe that much."

Connor kissed the top of her head, breathing in the smell of her hair. "How's yer faith lately, Renata Malone?"

Faith, that fragile thing like a sparrow fighting to hold its course through the storm inside her. There was still so little she could believe in, but there was the growing certainty within her that here at last was _ something. _ She could put her faith in the two men beside her. "I think...I'm getting on the right track..."

"Walkin the straight an' narrow, then?" Murphy joked.

"Fuck no. More like..." She halted, looking for the right words while her heart seemed to pound a little harder. How to explain what she felt when she barely understood it herself? "More like I'm willing to try a different road, to see where it leads."

"What road's that?" Connor asked.

"I dunno...might try the one I'm on right here."

"Which is?" Murphy pressed.

"What, you want specifics?"

"It's better than dickin around like ye are."

Fuck, they were going to make her say it. Still searching for the words, the only concession she was willing to make was, "I guess the one I'm on with you two..."

Murphy lifted his head, looking into her eyes. "Do we take it ta mean ye're stayin with us?" he asked. He looked over at Connor in the moment they spent waiting for her answer. There was a lot they didn't know about her and this was yet another curve ball in the game they were playing, but the chance to keep her with them a little longer was too much to resist.

She reached up and stroked a lock of hair back from his forehead, her eyes suddenly pensive and thoughtful, her voice soft and uncertain. "If you'll have me..."

By way of answer, Murphy laid his head back on her shoulder and Connor swept his hand across her skin to draw her closer. They had her already. They were still learning what it meant, but it was true all the same.

** Well, there it is, for better or worse. Did I mention I had to pry this one out with a crow bar? As a reminder, it's not going to be pure smut from now on...important stuff coming, remember? I need your love, my lovelies. R&amp;R, le do thoil! (Gaelic for "please," that is, just to keep you on your toes...) **


	20. A Hair and a Fine Line

**Yep**,** this one is out quicker, but don't get used to it. Things happened to fall into place a little faster this time, that's all. (Of course, it's borderline filler, but it's relevant, I swear.) Considering the aggravation dear Agent Smecker has given me in the past, I'm surprised, nay, FLABBERGASTED, that this worked out so smoothly. Perhaps we're learning how to work with each other at last...**

Smecker was just thinking of stepping out for a drink when the phone rang. He tossed his coat aside with a sigh and answered with a dry, "Hello?"

"Sir," came Greenly's voice, "we've got something new."

Smecker closed his eyes against the news. "How many bodies?"

"No, not a new scene, something we found at the last one."

"Oh?"

"CSU picked up a hair in that bedroom upstairs and ran it, and the DNA matched the blood by the back door at the strip club."

Recovering itself in record time, Smecker's mind immediately began to race, reevaluating the facts and sorting through the information. A hair matched the blood smear, a blood smear next to a fingerprint belonging to a stripper with a previous record...

"Sir?"

"I heard you, Greenly. I'll be right there." He hung up the phone and reached for his coat again. It looked like he would have to postpone that drink, but Greenly would likely give him more than enough reason to be sent out for coffee anyway.

He stood in the police department a short time later, looking at copies of the DNA reports. He had written off the blood as unimportant, and that hair didn't factor into his conjectures at all. It could be mere coincidence - Reg McDowell managed the club the Malone girl danced at, after all - but it went against his nature to rule new evidence out with no reason.

"So," Greenly urged, hovering over his shoulder, "what do you think?"

"Who's idea was it to run the hair?" he asked, ignoring the question.

"Mine," Dolly replied. "I thought it couldn't hurt."

"Well, you're right on that," Smecker agreed, "but I'm not sure if it helps yet."

"At least we know the lady across the street wasn't senile," Greenly piped up. "Maybe this Malone chick is involved now."

Smecker handed off the reports and paced slowly, trying to think over the noise in the room. The cacophony of the officers, offenders waiting to be booked, phones ringing, and doors slamming in the distance was too distracting; he headed for an empty interview room and Greenly, Dolly, and Duffy followed. He shook his head slightly, the sound of their footsteps shadowing his; he'd been fond of Arthur Conan Doyle's work when he was younger, but he'd never dreamed he'd be thrown in with Lestrade, Gregson, and Bradstreet in his adult life.

He held open the door for the three of them and let them into the room before stepping inside and closing the door. He took a seat and propped his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands. One of the detectives looked ready to say something but he held up a finger for silence, then buried himself once more in his thoughts.

Finally, he straightened his posture and turned to the detectives. "All right, gentlemen," he said, "let me hear your ideas on this."

"There was a new recruit at the strip club, so maybe Malone is another," Duffy said at once.

"That's one possibility. What else? Dolly?"

"Renata Malone danced at the club the homeowner was manager of," he replied, "so maybe they got shit on the side and it's got nothing to do with the guys we're looking for."

"But the lady across the street saw a woman with them," Greenly insisted.

Smecker heaved a sigh. "I'm sure _ you _ have theories," he told the rookie, "so let's hear them."

"I think she's the one who smashed the guy's head in." Dolly and Duffy began to laugh, but Greenly went on, "No, think about it! The other vics were gunned down at every scene. The one guy _ not _ shot is at the same fuckin scene where this chick was in on the action."

"You really think this random woman is in with our guys?" Smecker questioned.

Greenly shrugged, looking a little self-conscious. "Why the fuck not?"

"We've seen violent female perps before," Duffy conceded slowly.

Smecker nodded thoughtfully, turning the theories over in his head. "All three ideas are plausible," he said, and Greenly gave a look of astonishment. "Yes, even yours. The only trouble is, all the evidence we have is circumstantial. Not one frigging thing is definitive."

"We have an eyewitness," Greenly pointed out.

"Not enough. I once worked a case where an enforcer took out a rival syndicate boss. He shot up a subway platform full of people and killed three other innocent bystanders. When we talked to the witnesses, not one of them saw the same thing."

"But what do you think about this woman?" Dolly asked.

"She's got to be involved somehow. You men ought to know the drill by now. In this job, you never trust coincidences. We could have written off the blood, but there's too much other weird shit to ignore. The only thing I feel certain of is her involvement, and even that is still debatable."

"So we're still stuck," Duffy concluded.

Smecker didn't bother replying. The chase was still on, all right, and what a chase it had become. Never had he worked a case like this before. His quarry were unique as far as criminals went, and they had already racked up quite a reputation among the Boston police for their evasiveness and unpredictability, and among the media who had begun to paint them as heroes, the renegade cousins of justice and punishment. They were on a roll, and so far there was no clamor on the streets for them to be apprehended. Boston wasn't ready to give up her avenging angels.

He got to his feet and turned to the detectives. "They're bound to slip up eventually," he said, "so stay sharp, gentlemen. We'll get a break before too long." They made to leave the interview room, and he held Duffy back. "Between you and me, there was something screwy going on in that house besides pot," he told him. "That didn't strike me as a guest bedroom upstairs."

"Me neither," Duffy agreed. "Window nailed shut, door locked from the outside...pretty fucked up."

"I'm glad we agree. Listen, while we're going nowhere with the gang that killed him, I want you to look into Reggie McDowell for me. Anything you find, no matter how trivial it is, let me know about it."

Duffy nodded, then asked, "Won't that distract us from our shooters?'

"It's impossible to be distracted from nothing," Smecker told him. "Until we get a break in the case, I want to look into our friend Reggie. There's too much weird shit at that house, it all has to be related somehow. Can you handle that for me?"

"Sure."

Smecker gave him a smile.

They passed a gaggle exiting an interview room up the hall; a uniformed officer led a man in handcuffs back to his cell, and two detectives followed behind, talking in murmurs. "...never be enough to convict him. Forensics fucked up too bad at the scene for it to hold up at trial."

"And that cocksucker knows it, too. He'll walk, and we'll be pulling another body out of a dumpster in a few weeks." The man turned and saw Smecker and Duffy approaching. "Hey, Duffy," he said, "you're still on that homicide spree, aren't you? When you find your shooters, see if they're up for another job. That fucker needs put down on the spot."

Duffy hummed noncommittally and once the detectives walked off, he turned to Smecker and said, "They've been working that case for months; sick bastard snatches kids from playgrounds, mutilates them, then dumps the bodies in garbage cans. CSU contaminated the last dump site, and any evidence would be inadmissible in court." He heaved a sigh of frustration. "I've got a kid. I'd like to put a bullet in that motherfucker's head." He paused, then went on, "It feels fuckin weird; I'm so used to going after guys like that, now we're looking for guys on the same job we are. Hell, they're even doing it _ better _ than we are. A monster is going back on the streets on our watch, and if our guys were on it, it would be over in two seconds." Duffy's face darkened and he added slowly, "You know, I kinda hoped they would catch up to that son of a bitch before we did. Now I pray to God they do before another kid dies."

Smecker was silent, watching the detective and contemplating the intricate workings of criminal justice and the glitches in the system that allowed the guilty to escape. There were too many that got away, evading punishment to go out and commit the same atrocities all over again. Smecker himself was just one of many who gave everything to bring down evil men, only to discover that it meant nothing when it should have mattered most.

That could change in one instant. He could draw his own weapon right now, take aim and fire, as Duffy so badly wanted to do, and the world would be rid of another piece of shit no one would mourn losing...but he was committed to defending the law, not taking it into his hands. It was the only line separating him from the gang he pursued, and it was getting thinner the longer he was on this case. He took an oath at the beginning of his career, a rookie cop full of ideals and a thirst for justice, and Paul Smecker never went back on his word. He was honor bound to seek out those who stepped outside the codes of society. "Steady, Paulie," he muttered to himself.

"Sir?"

"Nothing," he said aloud. He gave Duffy a long, serious look; he still brooded with simmering anger and helplessness. "He'll get his one day, Duffy," he assured him. "We all do in the end."

**Yeah, I know it's short, but size isn't everything, aye? ;) As always, I love feedback. It's excellent motivation.**

** It looks like I'm about halfway through my written material; the finale and its aftermath have yet to be put to paper. I missed the one year anniversary of this story (has it been that long already?) but I just wanted to thank you guys again for sticking with this so far. You've been pretty awesome through this, and I'm glad we've gotten to know each other. I look forward to the rest of the story with you, and hope you continue to enjoy the ride. :)**


	21. Air of Silence

**Happy St. Patrick's Day! And since it's two years to the day since I started writing this thing...happy anniversary/birthday/whatever to "Warrior Shepherds." *throws confetti* Sounds like a couple good reasons to celebrate, am I right?**

** This chapter, subtitled "The Muddled Psychology of Renata Malone and the MacManuses Attempts To Help Sort Her Out," was actually fairly easy to write...barring certain sections that needed a little more confusion and self-loathing. The title was taken from lyrics to "It Must Have Been Love" by Roxette, which was a fitting song on many levels, but the main source of inspiration was "Inside Us All" by Creed, mixed with "Let Love In" by the Goo Goo Dolls. We're now entering the portion of the story that's been my favorite to write so far, which will shortly be followed by the section that was the toughest so far. Yay!**

** You lovely people feel free to enjoy this and leave me some love on the way out. I'll be stuck at work for another few hours, but I'll definitely be kicking back later with a Guinness and watching a movie. Betcha can't guess what it is! Happy St. Patty's! Sláinte!**

Rocco's necessary inquiries, made with all the discretion he was capable of, took the better part of two days, and he shared his information with Connor, Murphy, and - grudgingly - Renata. Her continued presence and the nature of her relationship with his friends did little to lessen the animosity between them, which was one of the reasons why the brothers decided she wouldn't accompany them on this job, though she argued vehemently against staying behind.

"I thought I was part of the group!" she stormed. "The fuck if I'm sitting this one out!"

"The fuck if ye're comin," Connor told her. "Roc's told us about this asshole, an' he's a fuckin sicko."

"Oh, so now you're trying to keep me out of harm's way?"

"Fuckin hell, woman, we already told ye once," Murphy shot back, "we didn't save yer ass so ye could get yerself fuckin killed. 'Scuse the shit outta us for carin."

"So that's it?" she demanded. "You're still pissed at me for taking off after Reg!"

"Maybe you need to open your fuckin ears," Rocco broke in, "but there's going to be a lot more than five guys at that poker game -"

"Which is why you need all the help you can get!" she interrupted.

"Which is why we can't be keepin one eye on ye ta make sure ye're where ye're s'posed ta be," Connor corrected. "'C'mon, Renata, this is Rocco's deal, an' he says it's best ye sit it out."

She snorted. "Rocco's deal, and it's no girls allowed."

Rocco rolled his eyes. "I swear, you guys are fucking a feminist," he grumbled.

"Eat me," she snapped.

"He'd better not, that's _my_ job," Connor interjected, trying to alleviate some of the hostility; she cracked a smile before she could stop herself, though Rocco pulled a face that clearly said "too much information." Connor returned Renata's smile and went on levelly, "We know ye can handle yerself, all right? It's just that...things are a bit different this time around, an' we'd all feel a little better with ye outta the line a fire on this one."

"But Connor..." She halted, then began again, her voice low and urgent. "Connor, you _promised_."

His brow furrowed and he exchanged a look with Murphy, comprehension dawning on their faces, and a slow, sinking feeling like an anchor disappearing into deep water settling in their bones.

Rocco looked between them all, confusion plain as the nose on his face. "Hello?" he prompted. "Someone wanna tell me what the fuck-"

"It's nothin, Roc," Connor said. "Just...step out for a minute, would ye?"

Rocco heaved a sigh, then shrugged and disappeared into the hallway.

The brothers turned to Renata, looking serious. "Might as well spill it now," Connor said. "What's so bad about bein alone?"

She gave an awkward half-shrug, looking uncomfortable. "It's not just being alone, it's - it's sort of hard to explain..."

"Ye gotta try, girl."

She hesitated, pressing her palms to her forehead as if she had a migraine. "You'll think I'm crazy..." she replied.

"We _know_ you're crazy," Murphy assured her. "A little more won't hurt."

"Fine, it's just...I can't be alone in the quiet. I just...can't. I can't handle it, I start thinking about bad shit..."

"What shit's that?"

She closed her eyes against the pain and fear in her mind and shook her head, unwilling to give voice to it. She couldn't face it in silence, so she sure as fuck couldn't share it with them. She could _never_ share it with them...

Murphy took pity on her and simply prompted, "The shit that made ye start usin in the first place?"

She hated admitting even that much, little as it was, but it was the lesser of two evils. "Yes."

"Ye don't have more pills stashed anywhere, do ye?" Connor inquired sharply.

"No, you flushed the last of them," she replied. "I swear, you did. But still, I...I can't stand silence. There's too much that tries to fill it, and it's-" She broke off, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "It's too much."

Murphy looked to Connor. "We can't, man," he told him. "Can't just let her sit an' stew."

"She can't come," Connor replied.

Renata watched them both, her eyes pleading silently. They couldn't do that to her, they couldn't abandon her to her demons while they went off to save the world. It was more than she could stand to tell them just how afraid she was, left alone to face the things that haunted her, face-to-face with the worst of herself, and she despised her weakness in hiding from it as well as the evil thoughts she was hiding from.

Connor continued to shift his gaze between Renata and Murphy, knowing he and his brother were of a mind as usual. This next job was Rocco's idea, and it was best if Renata didn't go. On the other hand, they had made a promise to her, and how could they go back on their word? "_We got ourselves in a bind again, didn't we?"_ he asked Murphy in Latin.

Murphy nodded and Renata burst out, "Would you can it with the foreign language shit? You know I can't stand that!"

"Should we try it in French, then?" Murphy asked. "Ye seemed ta like that one last time." She narrowed her eyes at him and he shrugged. "Just a thought." He paused for a moment, then said, "It's bound ta get quiet now an' then, no matter what we promise, an' I hate ta be the motherfucker ta leave her with nothin good ta fall back on. I think we need ta teach her another kind a silence, Connor, show her what else can fill it."

She gave him a skeptical look. "And how do you propose we do that?"

* * *

They pulled up to the curb outside St. Augustine's and Connor put the car in park, turning to Rocco and asking, "Ye comin in?"

He shook his head. "This is your thing."

Connor left him the keys and he, Murphy, and Renata got out of the car. She hesitated on the pavement, still looking disbelieving. "I don't know about this," she said. "I know you Catholics love your pageantry and all that shit, but..."

"No talkin shit about our religion," Connor rebuked.

"It's not even about religion," Murphy told her. "Faith's between you and God, yeah?"

"Then what _is_ it about?"

"I already told ye, silence."

Her look of skepticism deepened. "You think bringing me to church to sit among the pious will magically cure me?"

"Well, the Lord works miracles, ye know."

"Murphy."

"Lemme rephrase, then. _Peaceful_ silence. There's no bad shit allowed in here."

"Do you have no respect for my agnosticism?"

"We're not tryin ta convert ye or anythin," Connor insisted. "Just come inside, sit the fuck down, an' keep yer wise-ass mouth shut." She looked ready to argue some more, but he went on, "I know ye don't believe in any a this, but we're doin what we can, all right? D'ye think we'd be doin this if we didn't have to?"

"Forgive me for being a godless heathen, then."

"Renata-" He paused and took a deep breath, getting a firmer hold on his patience. "We don't want ta leave ye alone anymore than ye want ta stay behind, but it's the way it's gotta be, an' we'd feel better doin it if we thought ye'd be okay on yer own. Just...do us a favor an' work with us? Please?"

If she could have thought of a decent argument, she would have stood her ground, but as it was, he and Murphy had already turned and headed inside the church. She glared after them for a moment, then followed.

There were no services being held, so it was exceptionally quiet inside, the very atmosphere alive with the reverence and humility of the few worshippers who knelt in prayer. Candles flickered in red votives and sunlight spilled through the stained glass windows, shafts of gold falling across the pews and tinted with jewel-bright color. In a straight path up the nave stood the altar, and behind that, a great crucifix bearing the figure of Christ.

Connor and Murphy made their way up the nave and knelt before the figure, crossing themselves before rising and walking to a pew. Renata followed, feeling like a fish out of water as she sat beside them and watching them draw their rosaries from under their shirts as one and kneeling in perfect unison, bowing their heads and closing their eyes in silent supplication.

She remained seated, her eyes never leaving them as she fleetingly considered the peace they had brought her in search of. It was fairly obvious they had no trouble finding it here. They exuded serenity that seemed otherworldly, bathed in sunlight and yet disregarding its warmth, as if they drew heat and comfort from something more insubstantial but somehow just as existential. She knew they took their beliefs seriously, but she had never fully appreciated just how deeply they were invested in them, and she slowly found herself rethinking their idea to bring her here. If this was their great plan for helping her, what did it say about them, or what they thought of her? Soldiers for God, giving spiritual guidance to a lost soul, perhaps?

Well, maybe that was unfair. She knew them well enough by now to know when they were sincere. And they were certainly the picture of honesty: Connor bore the virtue with pride, visible for the world to see on his capable hands, and Murphy was an open book, his heart on his sleeve where deception was impossible. This was simply their way of trying to care for her, a gesture that exposed them to her regard more than they possibly realized. Though she had never been more inclined, she couldn't be cynical at a time like this, not when they had brought her to their sanctuary in the earnest hope that once there, she could find a fraction of what they did. She considered them for several long moments, growing steadily more convinced that she had never believed in anything the way they believed in _this_, whatever it was they sought when they knelt to pray, and not for the first time she felt unworthy sitting next to them, a lost sinner with no clear path before her and not even the heart to find one unaided.

Suddenly abashed to be staring at them so intently as they prayed, she cast her eyes around the church; it wasn't much different from the church of her childhood. More elaborate, of course, there were few frills on the Sundays of her youth, but she _could_ recognize that same feeling of sanctuary here, of being removed from the chaos outside and offering shelter to those willing to ask for it.

But what shelter could _she_ hope for? She couldn't turn her thoughts inward and find peace in her soul like Connor and Murphy could. Her soul was where the darkness lay, and it had grown deeper the further she wandered from what was good and just, and it seemed lately that every step she took was a step closer to disaster. She envied the brothers' perfect faith, their unshakable belief that there was a master plan and all would turn out as it should. Yet if she brought herself to share that belief, it was almost an acceptance of her own tarnished soul, condemned to unrest and regret because that was _how it should be_, and after struggling against it for so long, she wasn't sure she knew _how_ to accept it, even if she could bring herself to try.

As if summoned by her dread and doubt, that empty bedroom in Reg's house conjured itself onto her memory, the night she found Stacy there after she had gotten on Benny's bad side and needed to be taught a lesson, the night that made her certain beyond doubt she had no fucking right to be sitting here with Connor and Murphy MacManus, God's chosen instruments to eradicate evil and smite the wicked.

She fought the memory and renewed her attention on them, feeling a sudden pang in her chest. They were her perfect counterparts, secure in every aspect of their world, certain of themselves and their work, convicted in their faith. Maybe that explained why she was so drawn to them; it was the transgressor within her looking for a guide to salvation. Yes, that sounded right...that was at least _part_ of it. They balanced out her hopelessly slanted character and awoke what better nature she possessed. Not necessarily good, but better.

But there was more to it than that, wasn't there? There was the matter of the chemistry between them and the intense attraction that had existed almost from the start. It had begun purely sexual, it was true, but it had worked its way into something deeper, holding her in place when she could have left - _should_ have left - long ago. That was the most inexplicable of all. She had sworn to herself she'd put her faith in no man again after her misplaced trust in Kevin Reid led her to the worst catastrophe of her life, and now here she found herself trusting not just one, but two of the best men God had created. Their paths had crossed for reasons beyond her reckoning, giving her the first glimpse of hope she'd had after resigning herself to darkness.

But how could she hope to keep them, as she so badly wanted? She was faithless, self-centered, and untrustworthy, and once they found that out they would want nothing more to do with her, and the thought awoke a fear and desperation she hardly understood. Who were they, who could command such a hold over her? The only man who had never broken her trust died unable to recall her name, and every bond she had dared to form thereafter had been shattered until she no longer trusted her heart to anyone. She had flings and one-night stands, enough to satisfy her base urges but never anything more. Now her fear was that she had put herself on the line without meaning to, and it was already too late to turn back. She had cared enough to stay, and she left herself vulnerable again to the pain of loss.

She turned her gaze to the crucifix, reading Christ's expression. It was the same in every rendering, such agony and suffering, pain beyond comprehension with death the only hope for escape. She couldn't imagine what would inspire someone to endure such unspeakable barbarism, or the love behind such a supreme sacrifice. On the other hand, she had no doubt that if Connor and Murphy had lived back then during the execution of the most innocent man who ever lived, they would have dispensed the same justice they were bound to in the age they were born to.

The edge of the pew bit into her legs and her feet were falling asleep, but the brothers showed no sign of moving. She set herself to watching them to the exclusion of all else, her own thoughts included - it sure beat the shit out of letting her mind wander more than it already had. Connor's lips moved with words he didn't speak aloud and she recalled his tender, inviting kisses. The sunlight cast a burnished glow on Murphy's hair, and she resisted an impulse to run her fingers through it one more time. Oh yes, there was no denying it. She cared, and the admission held as much dread and terror as her own polluted memories.

Finally, as if on a cue only they knew, they stood and walked back up the aisle to the crucifix, kneeling again before kissing Christ's feet. They turned and headed for the door, and Renata hurried into the aisle to catch them. "How did it go?" she asked.

"Could ask the same of you," Murphy responded. "How was silence?"

She shrugged, brushing it aside. "We're not on any better terms, if that's what you're aiming for. I mean, it was a nice thought and all, but..."

"Well, maybe with a little time..."

"Time for what? To wait for a miracle?"

She wasn't angry, and her sarcasm wasn't meant in mockery but frustration; it seemed Murphy understood, putting an arm around her shoulders and giving her a brief hug. "Ye never know," he said. "Stranger things happen."

They walked outside and back to the car. Rocco stood on the curb, leaning against the bumper and smoking a cigarette. "Things went well?" he asked.

"Well enough," Connor answered. "We're comin back tomorrow."

"Oh, we are, are we?" Renata demanded.

"Sure. Ye don't have a hankering for Percocet, do ye?"

"No..."

"See? Progress."

"But I could use a drink."

He shrugged. "Let's just take it one day at a time, then."

* * *

Later that night, Connor, Murphy, and Renata sat around the table in the brothers' apartment, the remnants of a pizza, empty beer cans, ash trays and cigarette butts scattered everywhere. Renata reached into her backpack for the bag of Twizzlers and bit off a piece, twirling the strand in the air like a lasso and slouching in her chair.

Connor leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "Let's try an' get ta the bottom a this, shall we?" he said.

"Bottom of what?" she asked, still chewing her licorice.

"What makes bein alone so fuckin terrible."

She bobbed her head rhythmically, tilting the chair back on two legs. "You're my shrink now?"

"Just interested."

"Right." She set aside the half-eaten licorice and went for a cigarette, lighting up before continuing. "Is this genuine interest, or are you still trying to leave me behind?"

"Ye can't do anythin _but_ stay behind," he told her. "An' yeah, I'm interested."

She shrugged and exhaled. "My 'broken home,'" she put air quotes around the words, the cigarette held firmly between her thumb and fourth finger, "didn't help much. The school counselors that tried to analyze me decided my childhood was sufficiently disturbed to cause me to act out. Which is just quack speak for daddy issues."

The brothers smiled at her flippant attitude.

"So after my father took off, I leaned even more on my granddad," she went on, "and after he died, I went from one guy to another, looking for someone I could rely on, and it hurt like fucking hell to find I couldn't."

Connor nodded thoughtfully, then asked, "What's that got ta do with bein alone?"

"I was alone at the worst times of my life," she replied. "When Dad left, when Granddad died, when that douchebag Kevin took off and left me neck deep in shit with one foot on a banana peel...they tend to haunt me when I'm all on my lonesome, you know."

"Sounds like a phobia ta me," Murphy remarked.

"Monophobia," she said. "Or autophobia, whichever you prefer."

"Oh, ta be sure. Is that more high school English?"

"No, that's Psychology 101 at University of Missouri. Go, Tigers."

Connor ignored their exchange, studying the expression in her shaded eyes and reading more depth of feeling and complexity than in the past. There was a trace of sadness there, weariness that went further than physical exhaustion, and the restlessness that always lurked in her gaze. But beyond even that, there was fear and guilt creeping over the wall of her sarcastic, devil-may-care manner, hiding something she refused to share. "What else?" he asked.

"What do you mean, what else?"

"What more made ye start usin?"

The wall hardened in defense of her secret. "Isn't that enough?" she demanded, dismayed she had revealed so much. "It's bad enough to start taking the shit because I was lonely and depressed."

"C'mon, Renata, ye've got more balls than that."

"Maybe you've overestimated me."

"I doubt it."

"That's your problem, not mine."

"So that's all?"

"Yeah. That's all."

She was just going to clam up and shut them out; he expected as much, no matter how it was troubling her...whatever it was, but it didn't make it any less frustrating. They couldn't help her if she shot them down whenever they tried. He considered pushing farther to see if she would open up, then decided against it. She was stubborn enough to resist all effort to force a confidence she didn't want to give, and there was no point in getting anyone all worked up for nothing. He changed the subject. "What d'ye mean, couldn't rely on? Are we talkin walkin out like yer da, or what?"

She looked surprised, perhaps expecting him to keep interrogating her about her habit and what drove it, then answered, "Well, up to that point, my dad was the most important man in my life, then I saw him fucking my babysitter and he left soon after that, so yeah, I'd say that made an impression."

"Fair enough, but what about others?"

"Oh, you mean friends, boyfriends, and fuck buddies? Lying, cheating, selfish pricks, the whole pack of them."

Murphy pondered her answer, leaning forward to look more closely at her. "This is yer experience with schoolboys, yeah?"

"High school, college, somewhere around there," she replied. "Same difference."

"There's yer problem. We're assholes when we're young an' thinkin with our cocks 'stead of our brains."

"You mean that stops when you get older?"

"Sure, as soon as we find a stronger urge. Ours, ye see, are mainly drinkin an' prayin, so our cocks have ta compete with dry throats an' hungry souls."

"Hm. Sounds like a terrible affliction."

"Sweetheart, it's the fuckin worst."

"I'm curious, though," Connor said. "Don't ye think ye might be relyin on us ta save yerself from bein alone?"

"You're leaving me alone to go with Rocco," she replied. "I already know you're going to disappoint me."

"We're human, Renata. We're bound ta disappoint each other now an' then."

"Fine, have it your way. I'm a hypocrite getting cozy while preaching against it, and a pushy bitch demanding attention."

"Strong words, an' they're all yers."

"I've heard stronger regarding my numerous faults and failings."

The brothers traded wry looks at her peevish attitude. "_She was right, she_ does_ have issues_," Murphy remarked in Gaelic.

"_And I used to think our family was strange_," Connor replied, cracking open another beer.

"Would you quit that shit!" she stormed. "How juvenile is that? Act like fucking adults!"

"Ye hear that language?" Murphy asked Connor, trying to get even more of a rise out of her when she was already riled. "Completely inappropriate, comin from a lady."

"Because you wanted me to act like a lady when I had your dick in my mouth, right?"

Connor choked on his beer. Murphy thumped him on the back and he managed to force out, "She got ye on that one, Murph."

Murphy whacked him over the head. "Who's fuckin side are ye on?" he demanded.

"Just givin credit where it's due," he insisted. He cleared his throat several times and raised the beer in salute. "_Touché_, Miss Malone."

Renata smirked.

"Back ta my question, though..."

She rolled her eyes.

"Aren't ye puttin a lotta faith in a couple a fellas ye barely know?"

"I can put my faith where I damn well please, Mr. MacManus."

"That's not what I-"

"I know what you meant. And you know how I ended up here?"

"Ye said Kevin left ye."

"After my mom tried to talk me out of dropping out of school and coming to Boston with him. I walked out on her, just like my fucking father, because I wanted to follow my heart. What it got me was stuck in jail after I found out he was cheating on me and I went off on him and the bitch he was with in a crowded bar. I made bail and went home, and he wasn't there. Just gone, without a fucking word and leaving me hanging to dry. I spent a few weeks in a shelter, trying to find work so I could pay my court costs before they threw my ass back in jail, but nothing came of it.

"And then I walked into the Sin Bin...

She broke off, tilting her head back on her shoulders and staring at the ceiling. "I could sit here and spend the rest of my life talking, and I couldn't even begin to tell you what that was like. I've done some pretty stupid shit before, but to be forced to that point, to sink that low...it's different for the people coming in looking for a good time, but you can't imagine how that feels, to be worth only what someone was willing to pay to look at you. I made more money selling that poison than I did for my own body. And you know what?" She gave a half-hearted chuckle. "It still pisses me off that the pills were worth more than me."

"Well," Murphy said softly, disliking the subject, "ye gotta have yer pride..."

Her laughter turned bitter. "Yeah, pride. I thought I'd kissed that shit goodbye when I started stripping, but make better bucks selling pills than your own ass, and see how pride handles it. _That's_ what I lost after Kevin. My pride. My self-respect. And to end up there, of all places, to be a part of the shit that happens in there...after Kevin, I decided it wasn't worth it again, not for anyone. No fucking way I'd try defying gravity for someone who would just let me hit the ground at the bottom."

Connor was silent for several minutes after her story. He glanced over at Murphy and saw the same sympathy and compassion he felt written all over his twin's face. The same frustration, as well. How could she trust anyone after what she'd been through...but how could she judge them based on the behavior of others? "It defeats the purpose," he finally said, "pushin everyone away when ye don't wanna be alone."

The look that came into her eyes was dead and hollow, a brief glimpse of emptiness before she spoke again. "That's what the pills were for."

"An' they were the only company ye'd allow anywhere near," he concluded for her. "What the fuck else were ye tryin ta escape in bein alone?"

"Why is it so important to you?"

"I'm askin ye the same thing, aren't I?"

She reached across the table for his beer and took a swallow before replying, "I have a pathological fear of boredom. I also want to have sex right the fuck now, so if you're done playing Dr. Phil, take off your clothes and show me what you've got."

It was a conversation worth continuing later, though under her suggestion they weren't about to argue with her. Words all but dissolved in mere moments, and touch became communication as she welcomed them to her once again. She made it exciting every time, matching Connor's suave sensuality and Murphy's raw intensity and giving all of herself in return. Well, all of her bodily passions, perhaps. She kept the rest tucked away, maintaining her stubborn silence, and breaking down those last walls she held in place would be a lengthy process...if it was possible at all.

She lay between them later, fast asleep and looking peaceful in a way she never managed awake. Murphy propped himself up on one elbow and brushed her hair away from her face so he could look at her. "What d'ye think?" he asked Connor softly.

"I think she's full a shit about somethin," he replied, laying on his side and running his fingers up and down her spine. She shivered but slept on, and he drew a blanket over her still form.

"But what?" Murphy questioned. "What the fuck's goin on in that head a hers?"

"Christ, I don't know if even _she_ knows."

"It's serious, though."

"Aye, it has ta be..." It couldn't just be men weighing so heavily on her mind. There was something more driving her to self-destruction, a darker shadow than a troubled childhood, and she didn't trust them with it any more than she trusted herself. Understandable as it was, they both felt the sting of it, the same urge to draw it from her like venom from a snake bite and the same vexation that she wouldn't allow them.

Murphy sighed and lay back down, settling close to her. "She's in trouble, isn't she?"

"I reckon so, as long as she's on her own."

A slight pause, then, "Ye think there's somethin we can do?"

Connor gave a sigh to echo his brother's. "I hope so, Murph. I hope so."

** So, this chapter grew in thousand-word increments in every stage of editing...yikes! I let Renata spill her guts a little, then a little more, then a little more, etc. She tends to ramble when she's on a roll. LOL I'm off to the next chapter, so be patient. I can promise it's one of my favorites so far!**


	22. Downpour

**So, we meet again... How has everyone been? Lots going on around here, literally buried under work and distracted by a new book. Anyone else heard of it? "Jane Two," written by some guy named Flanery? Soooooo good! I read it twice in a row, not counting the audio book!**

** In other news, my Twitter feed blew up a few minutes ago with updates we've been waiting literal years for. Guess. You'll never guess. Ok, I'll tell you...BDS3 updates! Not much, but progress is progress! The hash tag "drop the drawers" has been trending pretty hard LOL**

**As for this chapter, I think you're going to like it (at least, I HOPE you're going to like it...) I've been down in the trenches with my muse, and we pretty much beat the crap out of each other trying to get this thing done. I emerged with two black eyes, a bloody nose, a split lip and several bruised knuckles, and I hope it's worth it. Enjoy!**

Lacking any better ideas to help her learn to cope, the brothers continued to bring Renata to church the remainder of the week, letting her sit quietly as they went about their prayers, as if she could learn peace by watching theirs. It seemed foolish to her, but she didn't mind; at least they were trying. Her mind tended to wander in the silence but she maintained her focus, keeping her thoughts tied to her surroundings and anchoring herself to the present. As a result, she found herself thinking mostly of religion - she still had no use for it - faith and God - surely the two of _those _went hand in hand, though they still eluded her grasp - and the two men accompanying her.

She would have to be stupid to ignore the way the esteem she held them in grew each day. It reached beyond the moments when need and desire overwhelmed all else in their path and they lay together, and lingered when that need had been slaked. It was a different kind of need that was perhaps even stronger, and it was in action as they brought her to their place of refuge for her sake, and as she followed along for theirs. She doubted this plan they had concocted but not the thought behind it or the feelings that stirred it into motion; faced with the prospect of separation, even such a brief one as what approached, she had little doubt of her own feelings as well.

It was just a shame the knowledge did nothing to ease her mind. In fact, she could swear that acknowledging what was happening made everything worse. There was no more discussion of her going on the job on Saturday and she posed no more arguments, but the looming threat of what awaited her that day cast a pallor over her attitude. Connor and Murphy had done all they could to prepare her, what little that was meant with the deepest sincerity, and the lessening of her withdrawal symptoms gave them some reassurance, but she grew moodier and more anxious as the day neared, and even Rocco joined their efforts to bring her out of her ill humor.

"Ye know, it's only for a few hours," Connor reminded her. "We'll be back before ye know it."

"Yeah," she replied in a dull monotone. "Great."

"It's really nothing personal," Rocco chimed in, looking as though he actually meant it. "We're heading out to kill a fucking psycho, and it's inviting chaos to have another along with us."

"Gee, thanks."

"C'mon, Renata," Murphy wheedled. "We could die when this shit goes down, how 'bout ye smile for us so we can go in peace?"

The look she gave him could have spoiled milk, but he only grinned innocently.

Friday night came around, and she was more agitated than ever. She sat on the couch smoking cigarette after cigarette, pausing only for a few nips off a fresh bottle of whiskey, never saying a word and staring moodily off into the distance. Connor and Murphy sat at the table servicing their firearms in preparation for the following afternoon, glancing at her now and then though she never appeared to notice. "Ye need one a these?" Murphy finally asked, offering her a gun. "If ye're tryin ta kill yerself, this'll work faster."

She ignored him, lighting a new cig off the old one and grinding the butt into the ashtray at her feet.

"Got somethin on yer mind?" Connor inquired.

"Why do you ask?" she replied.

"Ye started with a brand-new pack an' ye're down ta the last two," he told her. "An' that's more a nervous habit than a fix for ye, so whatever ye're thinkin, it's a doozy."

She rolled her eyes then tipped back the whiskey and drank. Connor and Murphy watched as she took several long gulps, looking as if she intended to kill the entire bottle in one go; they traded sideways, slightly nervous looks. If she had already resorted to heavy drinking, it wasn't going well.

Just as it looked necessary to stop her before she went too far, Renata lowered the bottle, finally setting it aside and gasping for air.

"Fuckin take it easy on that shit, okay?" Murphy warned. "Start goin through that like ye are smokes, an' ye _ will _ kill yerself."

She ignored him, still breathing deeply and sitting with her eyes closed, lost in thought.

"Renata?"

She stayed still for a moment, then shot to her feet, staggering at first and pausing to orient herself before reaching for her backpack. "I'm running to the store," she announced. "Be back in a few."

"It's rainin cats an' dogs," Connor pointed out.

"I know. I just need some shit."

"Well, I'm not gonna let ye go out scuttered in the middle of a fuckin storm," he argued. "Lemme drive ye."

She shrugged. "If you insist." They put on their coats and left Murphy at the table, heading for the elevator in the hallway. She weaved slightly as she walked and he kept one eye on her to be ready to steady her in case she should stumble, taking the opportunity to look her over a bit more closely. There wasn't a trace of her usual swagger and she seemed diminished without it, her steps heavier and more uncertain, and there was a distance in her eyes that made her seem far away, for all he was walking just behind her.

It was worth pulling her back before she was too far out of reach. "So, what're ye after?" he asked as they reached the elevator, pressing the button for the ground floor. "Smokes? Candy? ... Not tryin ta score any pills, are ye?"

"Why the fuck do you assume-"

"Relax, I'm just yankin yer chain," he interrupted, glad to at least get _ some _ kind of response from her. "Ye don't gotta bite me fuckin head off, it was a joke."

"You know, you're so fucking hilarious you should go into stand-up."

"Mm. I'll keep that in mind. Might be a good plan for retirement, aye?"

She glared at him as the elevator came to a stop and he smiled pleasantly, motioning her out into the hallway and casting appreciative eyes over her as she walked. "Might freeze out there, ye think?" he asked; she wore her mini skirt and sneakers, and he shifted between admiring glances at her legs and looks of skepticism at the rain-lashed windows.

"I'll walk fast," she replied, brushing it off.

He shrugged, and they went outside.

The downpour was icy as they hurried to the curb, and Connor unlocked Renata's door before going to the driver's side. She shivered as she got in and he turned on the heater after he started the car, glancing at her pale face and seeing that distance in her eyes again. "You all right?' he asked.

"What?" she asked. "Oh, sure, I'm fine." She pushed a few strands of damp hair back off her forehead, lapsing back into silence.

Connor drove slowly through the rain, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She stayed quiet, staring out the window without seeing anything, and he couldn't help the unease working its way into his brain. He and Murph hadn't yet left her alone, but she had beaten them to the punch; sitting with a ghost in the passenger seat, he might as well have been driving by himself through the storm. "Ye did good at Reg's house," he told her. "If it was up ta me, I'd say ye should come with us. But Roc-"

"Yeah, I know," she broke in. "It's his idea, he's your friend, and you have to trust his judgment."

"Well, yeah. But ye know we'd never leave ye alone if we didn't think ye could handle it."

"You don't have a choice, Connor, simple as that. You don't have to sugarcoat it to make me feel better."

"C'mon, now, ye think I'd just blow smoke up yer ass? Ye're a lot tougher than ye give yerself credit for. We're not as worried about ye bein alone."

"Of course not, especially not as far as Rocco is concerned."

"Nah, I mean me an' Murph. _ We're _ not worried."

"Maybe not. The vote of confidence is overwhelming."

The car hit a pothole, the puddled rainwater splashing back onto the windshield, and Connor swore in irritation. "Fuckin hell, Renata, do ye always have ta be such a fuckin smart ass? Or is it only in self-defense?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Ye're scared. Fuck, even Rocco knows it. There's no shame in sayin so."

"You're the one that just said I'm so tough."

"Aye, well, there's bein tough, then there's bein stubborn."

They pulled up to the curb and she reached for her door handle, but he moved to stop her. "Just...wait a second an' fuckin _talk _ta me. Ye gotta know we're not leavin ye alone, not like that. Do ye?"

She tightened her grip on the door handle but didn't open it, and it seemed to him that she clutched it for support. "Yes," she said, almost too softly to be heard over the rain. "I do."

"Then what the fuck's wrong? Don't bullshit me," he added, cutting her off as she opened her mouth to interrupt, "there's gotta be somethin, or ye wouldn't be so afraid."

She shook her head, denying nothing but refusing everything. "It's not your problem," she said.

"For Christ's fuckin sake, Renata, it _ is _ my problem!" he burst out, striking his hand against the steering wheel. "What d'ye think, that Murph an' I don't give a flyin fuck ta see when somethin is eatin ye alive an' ye can't stand ta be alone with it? Ye think we don't fuckin _ care?"_

"I never asked you to."

"Fuckin A right ye didn't, but we do, an' now ye gotta deal with it. Ye know it's killin us ta see ye hurtin like this, knowin ye won't let us help ye."

"Do I?" she asked.

"Well, fuck. Ye do now."

She paused, giving him one quick glance before looking away like she couldn't meet his eyes but couldn't keep from it either. He stared her down, never turning away from her and praying she'd just _ trust him._ He had never needed someone to open up so badly, or to let him in quite this desperately. He said that he and his brother cared and it was true, but it didn't even begin to tell the whole story. He had few words for what was in his head and she wouldn't believe half of them, not his pain at seeing her fear, his dread of leaving her alone with whatever misery plagued her, or his need to keep her safe from the things that tormented her, but fuck. If he had to, he'd spend the rest of the night inventing new words to convince her of all of it and then some, if she'd give him a chance.

She still wouldn't look at him, her face turned away and her fingers readjusting their hold on the door handle. "I've got to go inside," she said.

"Not yet, ye don't," he replied, softening his tone. "Ye can believe me or not, but we _ do _ care about ye, an' we don't like seein ye like this. We don't want ta worry about you."

"And maybe..." She halted, her voice coming out hoarse at first; she cleared her throat and continued, "maybe it scares me to sit at home and worry about the two of you."

"Home?"

"It's the closest I've had in a long time, and I don't want to lose it."

She finally met his eyes, looking as close to tears as he'd ever seen her, and all he wanted was to pull her into his arms and hold her until she felt safe again and the pain of seeing that look in her eyes was only a memory. "That's what ye're scared of?" he asked, trying to speak reassuringly but the words coming out as little more than a whisper. "Sweetheart...ye're not gonna lose us anytime soon..."

"You don't know that, Connor."

"Don't try an' tell me what I do or don't know, Malone." He knew good and fucking well. Not a word of it had passed between him and his brother, but it didn't need to. She wasn't going anywhere if they had anything to say about it, and they sure as fuck weren't walking away from her now. There was far too much between them, grown so fast none of them had time to see it happening, much less prevent it. And while it might have been too early to say it, for all their sakes, it was too late not to feel it, straight down to the marrow of his bones. She just kept staring at him, her eyes searching his as though she heard everything he hadn't said but couldn't comprehend the meaning, and he didn't say another word, not knowing what else he _could_ say. All he knew for sure was that he couldn't leave her tomorrow with that fear meeting him every time he looked into her eyes.

The moments stretched on unbroken until he finally felt he had to say _ something _\- whatever the fuck that happened to be - but she finally turned away, opening her door. "I'll be right back."

This time he let her go, leaning back in the seat and listening to the rain on the roof. Through the darkness, he could make out her figure, dodging puddles and rushing into the store, and his mind was a turmoil of thought and feeling that wrestled with itself, trying to make sense of what was happening. He was the one who always had a backup plan, who never had time for doubt and uncertainty, whose every moment was spent believing there was a reason for everything.

And then there was Renata Malone. From the moment she had stumbled through the back door of that strip club, she had been the variable in the equation, the wild card in the deck, the freak storm that hit without warning. All bets were off when it came to her, and if there was a reason for her presence, it was anyone's guess whether it meant blessing or disaster. But it was so hard to care what the future held as long as she was in the here and now, broken and brave, torn and tenacious, weary and wild. It didn't matter what she was, as long as she was there. To a logical mind, that made the least sense of all; how could a woman he and Murphy barely knew have such an impact? When had she become more than the crazy drunk that shot out their car window? Did it really matter? She _was_ more, more than should have been possible, but Connor MacManus was a man of faith. All things were possible. _This_ was possible...she was possible.

She appeared again several minutes later, cramming a plastic grocery bag into her backpack as she got back into the car and settled into the seat. "All right, let's go."

"Nah, just wait a minute," he told her. He didn't want to go home yet, not when the impossible was close enough to touch. "Just sit an' listen for a bit."

She obliged, pausing to tune into what he was hearing. At first it was only a storm, but after a moment she heard past the sheets of rain to make out individual drops on the roof, and the wind a language unto itself, speaking alternately in whispers and cries. In the confinement of the car with everything so close, the noise would have struck her as bleak if not for one other sound...the soft and steady rhythm of Connor breathing beside her. He was there hearing it with her, and for a moment she could pretend there wasn't another soul in the world but the two of them.

"How's that for silence?" he asked, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the calm.

She held still a moment longer, drinking it in, then said, "I like this...let's just hang out here for awhile."

"Sure. Sounds fine ta me."

They sat side by side without saying a word, listening to the sky fall just outside their safe haven, and she didn't want to move, didn't want to lose the moment yet, but wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him. There were only inches between them, what distance could be achieved within the confines of a car, and it was too far to satisfy her need to be closer.

Whether he was reading her mind or he felt the same, he edged away from the window towards the middle of the seat. "Fuckin window has a leak," sounding matter-of-fact but with a slight waver in his voice.

"That sucks," she commiserated. Less space now, but if he wanted to meet her halfway, then she could do the same. Couldn't do otherwise, really. She scooted closer and adopted his matter-of-factness. "I'm cold."

"Well, what did ye expect, traipsin half-dressed in this shit?" he asked. "I think ye did it on purpose."

"Why would I do that?"

"Ta get me ta do this." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her nearer, warming her with his own body heat. "Better?" he asked.

"Mm, better," she sighed, burrowing deeper and laying her head on his chest. He rested his chin on the crown of her head, staring at the rain on the window and letting the sound of the storm fill the car, then said, "I'm glad ye stayed."

"Me, too," she replied.

"Was it..." He hesitated, not sure what he wanted to say or if he should say anything at all, but the way his mind and heart raced together, indiscernible from each other and speaking louder than ever, he had to ask. Had to know. "Was it _ only _ta keep from bein alone?"

"That's...that's part of it."

"Part of it."

"Yes."

He could sense the uncertainty running through her, recognizing it easily in the midst of his own hesitation. He should leave well enough alone and hold back the questions he had in his head, but it was so hard to stop now he had begun. "An' what about the rest?"

"Connor..." She turned and buried her face in his coat; the wool smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and aftershave, but underneath that was a musky, masculine scent that was entirely his own. She filled her senses with it, feeling the warmth and strength of his arms promising to hold her safe from whatever would try to harm her.

"Renata?" he prompted gently.

She paused, then shook her head. "Please don't ask me that."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't answer."

"Can't? Or won't?"

There was so much she wanted to say, and much more she was afraid to say. She was never more sure she belonged somewhere than as she sat there with his arm around her, or when she teased with Murphy, or even just being with the two of them, simply sharing each others presence. And it terrified her into silence. They mattered to her more than she could explain, and she always lost what mattered to her. Whatever pain it caused her now would likely destroy her when she lost them, as she was bound to do; all she could do was abate it for now, and focus on the present while everything was still hers...the car, the rain, the man beside her...

He leaned a little closer, speaking softer. "Renata," he said.

"Don't talk right now," she pleaded. "Just..." She gave up on words and lifted her head from his chest, pulling him down to her and kissing him.

There was a question in her lips, tentative and shy where she was normally bold and reckless. He answered it immediately, lifting a hand to her face and brushing his fingers along her jaw before burying them in her hair. He felt her shaking and folded her deeper into his arms, trying his best to reassure her and lift the shadows from her mind, if he could. If she would let him.

She shifted in the seat, turning to him and straddling his lap. Winding her arms around his neck, she kissed deeper and he responded, his need rousing to hers with an urgency that was almost alarming. She slid her hand under his coat, pushing it off his shoulders, and he drew back, caution overriding desire. "Renata," he began; they had no protection, she was emotional and vulnerable, they were parked right outside the_ corner store,_ for fuck's sake.

"Connor," she broke in, eyes overbright even in the darkness of the car. "_Please." _ She rocked gently against him, the motion making an argument in her favor, but it was the note of..._something _ in her voice, not quite sadness or distress, neither desperate nor resigned, that struck him the deepest. He and Murphy would leave her alone tomorrow, and he had to do something now before they were gone. For his own sake as well as hers, she had to know that she was safe, here and now, no questions asked.

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, unhurried and undemanding, trying to convey what she wouldn't believe in words through a simple touching of lips. He felt her breath catch, she was pressed so close, then her hands grew more insistent, shoving restlessly at his coat, and he slid his arms out of the sleeves as she grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it up, over, and out of the way.

She_ was_ cold, her hands chilled to the touch as they wandered across his chest, her lips joining her fingers with an immediacy that felt like life and death. He turned her face up and her mouth met his an instant later, her arms clinging tighter and his hands slipping beneath her sweater, her skin cool and soft beneath his palms. He unhooked her bra and she drew back enough to take it off, drawing it through her sleeve and discarding it. Allowing no more time for hesitation, he gathered her into his arms and gently lowered her back onto the seat.

It was as though she was afraid he would disappear if she stopped touching him. Fingers trailing over his face, hands clutching at his back, arms winding around his shoulders in an effort to keep him as close as she could. His own hands slid across her navel, pushing her sweater higher as he cupped her breasts, feeling her heart beating wildly beneath his fingers. Her skin began to lose some of its chill, his warmth chasing away the cold. She leaned up into his touch, closing her eyes but never losing hold of him, her sigh barely audible over the falling rain. "Connor..."

He didn't answer, too intent on her. He wanted fear to be the last thing on her mind, nothing left but what he offered and what he sought to give. He was as gentle as he knew how to be, tender adoration in every brushing of skin.

"Connor?"

"Aye?" he replied softly.

Another sigh like the wind outside, "Don't stop."

_I need you._ She didn't say it, but he heard it all the same. Cursing the confined space of the car, he edged back on the seat and put his hands on her hips, guiding her along. "Open yer eyes, love," he urged her, and she obeyed, focusing on him. He stroked her bare legs, holding her gaze in his as he traveled up her thighs and under her skirt, reaching for her panties. She fidgeted beneath him, lifting herself off the seat as he drew the underwear past her hips, and kicking one shoe off with such careless ease he had to smile, her bare foot sliding out of her underwear with no difficulty. "Not yer first rodeo, aye?" he teased.

"Shut up," she replied, smiling back. He turned toward her, putting one of her legs behind him on the seat and draping the other across his lap, pushing her skirt higher up her thighs and leaving her open to him. "It's not your first either, cowboy."

He chuckled and stroked his fingers between her legs, slowly slipping inside her. She was so hot and slick, scalding to the touch; God, he loved the feel of her, sliding deeper until he found the tiny bundle of nerves he'd been looking for. He pressed firmly as he circled, curling his fingers rhythmically and feeling her grow even wetter. She held her breath as she watched him, her gray eyes gone black, her body relaxing under his care even as the pressure built at his touch. He reached under her sweater again with his free hand, fingertips brushing across her belly to tease the sensitive skin beneath her breasts and a shiver rippled along her spine, timed with the beckoning motion of his finger inside her. "God, Connor..."

He slid his hand behind her back and moved his finger from her g-spot to her clit; she bowed upward again and he wrapped his arm around her, holding her up. His fingers were sticky with her arousal, her body ready for him and his acutely aware of it. He cursed again at the ache of the erection straining against his jeans, pressing his lips to hers with renewed urgency. She broke away with a small gasp at his fingers still at work under her skirt and he moved to her neck, murmuring in Gaelic against the pulse point in her throat.

"What are you saying?" she asked.

He trailed soft kisses along her jaw and answered, "Ye're beautiful..." He held her tighter to him and drew her closer, "An' so fuckin strong..." She was so wet there was almost no friction between them but he stroked harder and she let out a stifled moan, "An' I'm not takin ye home until ye believe it."

She clutched at him, one hand groping at his back and the other seizing a handful of his hair. She bucked into him again, part involuntary and part demand for more. _"Connor..." _

It didn't take much more and she was falling apart in his arms, her eyes squeezed shut and her whimpering cries joining the sound of the rain on the roof. She gasped and panted, struggling to pull air into lungs that forgot how to do their job, and he moved his free hand into her hair, cradling her against him. "Breathe, _mo mhuirnin,"_ he whispered. "Just breathe with me." He didn't let up with his other hand, stroking gently to ease her through the first orgasm, then a little harder to send her tumbling into another. She held on for all she was worth, legs curling around him and her arms caging him in an embrace he didn't think likely to break anytime soon. And just when he thought she was finished, she slid from the seat and into his lap, leaning in for another kiss and her hands fumbling at his belt.

He caught hold of her arms to stop her, though the will to do so was fading rapidly into the background. "Renata-"

"No, Connor," she said, her voice resolute despite its lingering tremble. "I don't care." She kissed him to emphasize her point and repeated, "I don't care."

Truth be told, did he? She was still all over his fingers, and when he lifted a slightly shaky hand to brush her hair away from her face she turned and caught those fingers in her mouth, sucking them clean. He groaned aloud and thrust upward into her, unable to keep from it anymore. It wasn't just about fucking her. He wanted to possess her and let her do the same to him, to consume and be consumed in turn, to collide with her until they crumbled to pieces and put each other back together again. Nothing else would satisfy him now - likely, nothing else would ever again. He was no fool. He knew what he was feeling, and damned if he was going to run from it now. She wasn't ready to hear it, much less say it herself, which left only one way he could possibly tell her.

He relaxed his grip on her arms, holding her but no longer restraining her. The I-need-you in his eyes matched what she felt crying out in her veins, or was that even deep enough? There seemed no end to what she was feeling and seeing, and she rushed headlong in pursuit, determined to let it carry her away and to take him along with her.

They both breathed a sigh of relief when she unzipped his jeans and finally lowered herself down onto him, settling him deep inside. She held still for a moment, still trembling in aftershock and lost in the feel of him, and when she began to move she started slow and easy. He would want to make it last and she wasn't inclined to rush, needing to exist in the here and now where nothing mattered but the two of them and he was all she could feel. He let her set the pace, one hand on her hip pulling her down deeper with every stroke and the other running across her skin, his warmth melting into her and throwing fuel on the fire searing her veins. She ran her own hands across his chest, moving up to lock her fingers together at the nape of his neck and holding tight as her limbs began to shake. Her muscles ached with every unhurried movement but her nerves sang with pleasure; she could hear him panting along with her, knew his pulse raced as hers did, and yet when she began to gasp with the approach of ecstasy, he tightened his hold to keep her still.

She made a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, leaning forward to press her forehead against his. "Why do you always do this to me?" she asked.

He circled her thighs with his hands, stroking softly while still not letting her move. "Coz I like seein ye all in a lather when I do."

She felt her lips twitch in a brief smile. "Can't you let me off the hook once in awhile?"

"Fuck no. Ye know ye love it."

She couldn't contradict him. Few things held a candle to those moments spent frozen in time with him, when she was a split second from the oblivion of ecstasy and he held her on the edge, strength and security offered in an unspoken promise if she would only trust him. And trust him she did, every single time. There was boundless potential in those moments where she could be anything at all, and she chose only to be Renata Malone, knowing somehow that was all he required of her and finally feeling that it was enough. She would give him the same if she could.

As far as his hold would allow, she continued to rock against him, creating just enough friction to push her closer to insanity without going over the edge and pulling him in the same direction. He closed his eyes briefly, his head swimming with the rush as everything began to fall into sensation - the sound of the rain, the warmth of her body surrounding his, the thunder of his pulse as she brought him closer to where he held her, at that perfect moment where the impossible never seemed out of reach. Holy God in Heaven, he was barely holding on, just one breath away, and he didn't want to let go so soon. "Not so fast, sweetheart," he said, tightening his hold on her. "Don't rush it."

He could feel her hold her breath, trembling in his hands as she tried to stay with him, resisting the tide pulling her forward so as not to leave him behind. She was in that perfect moment with him, a heartbeat from fracturing into a thousand jagged pieces and yet complete in a way otherwise impossible to achieve. She whimpered softly as her body acted on its own, hips surging forward again as she struggled for mastery. "Connor, please..."

"Ssh," he soothed, placing a delicate kiss to her forehead and raising his hands to her face. Her skin was so familiar, so warm and soft beneath his fingers - until they met the cool, damp tracks of tears.

If time hadn't stopped before, it certainly did now. Crying...she was crying...he had believed her stubborn and cynical, her attitude much too tough to allow tears, let alone shed with a witness to their existence. Yet the proof was there in her eyes, echoes of the storm visible in the cool gray, and proof of so much more than tears. A gate had opened, her soul laid bare in that single, perfect, heart-stopping moment, and he could see everything she kept hidden inside, demons and desires, hope and trust, and a heart unafraid to show him what her words would never say. He had to hold on, to memorize the vision while it lasted, just in case she never gave him the chance to see it again.

She had no idea how, but he did it every time, stopping the clock the last second before the countdown ended. And it was so strange to her that with time at a standstill, it somehow meant less, certainly much less than the man who made it stop. She had never felt more sure of the madness awaiting her if she held on too long, but the world had ceased its spinning because it revolved around him, and he chose to forestall the moment. She could spend eternity locked in limbo if he asked it of her, but only as long as he stayed there with her. Nothing had ever seemed so clear to her than in that moment he created for her, because she asked it of him.

It couldn't have been more than a few seconds but it felt like entire lifetimes, anchored irrevocably together with nothing but the truth between them, unable to tear themselves away, and Connor finally let go.

The end came at once, striking them both with the force of a dying star, breaking apart into a million pieces for the old to fall away and something else to take its rightful place. In crossing over together and fragmenting so completely, there was no way to be certain that when they put themselves back together, they didn't each claim pieces of the other to keep for their own, binding them together as long as there was a breath to take.

The power of it was too great for words, leaving them clinging all the more desperately, as if the binding of their souls had somehow bound their bodies as well. It seemed even stranger than time standing still that she could still weep after her heart nearly burst with what she felt, but it wasn't strange at all to him. No, not strange, not when he could feel the same things inside him. If she was crying, then she was feeling what he did, and she wasn't hiding it.

He kept his arms tight around her, stroking her hair and whispering softly in her ear. "It's all right, love," he murmured. "It's all right, I got ye."

"Connor," she said between sobs. "Connor..."

"I'm here, Renata. Connor's here."

Another moment of tears, then so softly he almost missed it, "Don't let go."

He didn't speak, just kept holding her in answer. She shivered and shook and the more she cried, the harder it was to rein in the words inside him trying to get out, words he couldn't contain but couldn't yet lay at her feet, and for the first time since they had left Murphy to go on her errand, he wished his twin was with them. There was too much to say, and good as he was with words, he just couldn't say it alone. It was for the three of them to travel that road together. But no, he couldn't just stay silent either. "I'm not lettin go, love, not on yer life," he promised. "I've got ye now. Trust me, darlin." There was a knot in his throat, more words not quite ready to come out, so he forced them back down. "Trust me."

The rain had lessened by the time she finally stopped shaking, her tears exhausted. She relaxed against him but didn't let go yet, so he held on and waited, reluctant to move anyway. Long before he was ready, she stirred away with a sigh. "Murph will think we skipped town on him."

"Nah," he replied. "He's good." He brushed the last of the tears from her face and asked, "What about you?"

"I'm good."

"Ye sure?"

She kissed him one more time and pulled out of his arms, sliding into the passenger seat. "Hand me my shoe," she said, gathering up her discarded bra and panties and shoving them in her backpack.

"Renata," he insisted.

She straightened up and looked him in the eye. Hers were still red-rimmed but clear, and everything that had been so plain only moments ago was tucked away and hidden again. "I'm good," she replied.

He paused, still looking for those traces of heart and soul in case they lingered after all, then nodded, zipping his jeans and putting his shirt on before getting back behind the wheel. He passed her the sneaker and fired up the engine, the rumble of the motor banishing the last of the silence they had shared, then reached over to her and brushed a lock of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Come on, then," he said. "Let's get ye home."

** Connor's bit of Gaelic, pronounced "mo VOR-neen," translates as "my darling," a beautiful phrase I've been dying to use for a very long time. But that's just background info, and I'm anxious to hear what you guys think of this one. *chews nails nervously* And lest anyone think Renata is playing favorites after all, don't fret. Murph will get his own chapter! ;)**

** This was a very serious, very important chapter that was a major game changer (for me, at least) and a LOT of effort went into it, so please, in the name of all that is good and holy, don't leave me hanging. Let me hear from you! Feed the muse!**


	23. Russian Roulette

**First of all, hi! How are ya? Hello, welcome, and thank you to all the new peeps kind enough to fave and/or follow. :) A special shout out to StrangersAngel...congrats on the job, and a hug just because! :D**

**Second of all, GAAAAAAAHHHH! I won't even get into how tricky this one was or we'll be here all day. LOL Just know that my muse and I demand much of each other, and our trio demands even more of the two of us. And with Renata and Murphy being, well, Renata and Murphy, the best I could do was turn them loose and try to keep up.**

**And third, tunes! I found our crazy kids among the guitars and keyboards of "Show Me Your Soul" by Red Hot Chili Peppers, and RHCP fans will also find an "Aeroplane" reference. It's been all out war trying to get this done, so I hope you like it. Enjoy!**

There was silence on the short trip back to the apartment, if of a different quality. The worst of the storm had passed but the rain still fell steady as they walked into the building, grateful to be out of the weather though still thinking of that moment in the car and the silence they had left behind.

Renata carried her backpack hugged tight to her chest, replaying the words they hadn't said and glad they hadn't hit the air where they couldn't be taken back. Connor stood close to her, wrapping his arm around her and kissing the top of her head as they rode the elevator to the fifth floor. He could sense her retreating back into herself again, though the frightened despair that had worried him before was gone. She merely seemed to be deep in thought, and he had a good feeling he knew what was on her mind this time.

"Hey," he said gently, and she focused her eyes on him. "Ye still okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I'm okay. Just thinking."

"About what?"

The tiny smile that showed more in her eyes than the rest of her face was answer enough, so he took his cue from her silence and didn't say another word, simply holding her as the elevator jolted to a stop.

Murphy had finished with the guns by the time they got inside the apartment. He still sat at the table, nursing a beer while a half-smoked cigarette rested in the ashtray before him. He glanced between them as they walked in and the clock on the wall and said, "About fuckin time. I was startin ta think ye'd drowned." He caught sight of Renata's face, the evidence of tears still plain to see, and sobered. "What's goin on?"

"Not now, Murph," Connor told him. He gave him a meaningful look and his eyes darted sideways at Renata, promising they would speak as soon as they could do so alone, and Murphy let it drop.

If Renata heard a word of the exchange, she gave no sign. She set her backpack on the floor by the couch and went to the bed, suddenly exhausted and her mind too full for conversation. She lay down without undressing further and Connor and Murphy followed her without a second thought, Connor removing her shoes before settling behind her and Murphy stretching out on her other side. "It'll keep til tomorrow," he said.

She hummed in acknowledgment, then said, "I'm sorry I'm such a mess lately."

"Nah, forget it," Connor told her. "Ye think _ this_ is a mess? Ye shoulda seen Murph when his first girlfriend ditched him. Ye'd have thought someone kicked the bucket, the way he carried on."

"Oh, that's so?" Murphy challenged. "Well, ye haven't seen shit til ye've seen Connor wreck our first car. Cryin an' blubberin like a stood-up prom date, an' that was_ before_ Ma laid inta him for crashin in the first fuckin place."

Her lips twitched in a smile and she said, "At least you don't have to worry about me ditching you."

"Oh, aye," Connor agreed. "We're stuck with ye now."

"Don't worry," Murphy added. "We don't mind." She didn't answer at that, so he stroked her cheek and urged, "Close yer eyes, sweetheart. It'll be mornin soon enough."

"_The sun will come out_," Connor sang in a ridiculous falsetto, "_tomorrow...bet your bottom dollar that_-"

Renata giggled.

"There we are," he said triumphantly. "There's a smile, fancy that."

"You sound like a fucking dork."

He shrugged. "Everybody's a critic. I'll just stick ta stand-up."

They fell into an easy silence, the rain outside a quiet backdrop to the peace in their bed. Tomorrow, the brothers' mission would call them and they would have to leave her behind, but for now Renata was content to lie between them and feel like she belonged there. Come what may, there was no heaven, no hell, no place for her but this one.

* * *

She awoke the next morning to hushed voices, recognizing the lilt of Gaelic in her slow return to alertness. Connor and Murphy were up first as usual, sitting at the table and deep in quiet conversation, looking intent; Connor glanced over to where she lay, seeing her awake, and he greeted her promptly. "Mornin."

"Morning," she replied, sitting up and stretching. "What are you boys talking about?"

"This afternoon. Roc's found a cheap van, he thinks it might make shit easier on us. He'll be here later."

"When does the poker game start?"

"Round two-thirty," Murphy answered, "so we've got a bit a time ta kill." He looked her over, taking in the rumpled clothes and tangled hair. "How're ye feelin this mornin?"

She shrugged. "I'm here."

"Aye, I see that. An' otherwise?"

"Starving."

"Well, that's an easy fix," Connor said. "We have plenty a time ta run for breakfast."

"Go on and do that," she replied. "I'll stay here and revive."

He nodded and grabbed his coat. Murphy took another look at her and asked, "Are ye sure ye'll be all right by yerself?"

She smiled wryly. "You're leaving me by myself in a few hours anyway, what's a few more minutes? I'm just gonna grab a shower and see if that perks me up."

He nodded, then followed Connor out into the hallway, turning to his twin with a worried look. "Ye don't think she's got any drugs in there, do ye?" he asked.

"Nah," was the ready answer.

"Ye sure?"

"I trust her, Murph."

Truth indeed, and no small admission, given his fierce need to protect, particularly when he cared as much as he did. He had told Murphy about the previous night's conversation as Renata slept, confessing openly to his brother what he hadn't said to her in the car. He was falling for her, if he hadn't already, and while it made him worry about her that much more, he had to give her a chance if he expected one in return.

Murphy knew his brother well enough to see his sincerity. Connor's feelings were as real and honest as they ever were, and Murphy wondered just how far down that road he was himself. He hadn't stopped to give it serious thought before, but now it seemed a little late to do so. He was more attached to her than any other woman he'd been with in a good while...and yet in all honesty, he knew how meteoric his own feelings could be. Connor was ever the steady one, losing neither his heart nor his head unless it was for the long haul. It didn't take much, on the other hand, for Murphy to fall head over heels, his passions often intense, devout - and short-lived, burning out as rapidly as they flared to life.

Could he expect the same with Renata?

Connor gave him a nudge as they stepped into the elevator and headed for the ground floor. "What's eatin ye, Murph?"

He shrugged, eyes flickering back across the hallway to their loft before the elevator door closed.

Leave it to his brother to read between the lines and know what the fuck was going on. "Ye nervous?"

He nodded slightly. "A bit."

"Myself as well," he admitted. He stayed quiet for a moment, then clapped Murphy on the shoulder. "We're gettin pretty fuckin good at playin it by ear, right? Not much sense in changin tack now, eh?"

"Nah," he agreed. "S'pose not."

"I reckon we can figure out what's what as it comes along."

"Aye. Me too."

Leave it to his brother, all right. That encouraging smile was starting to work. "It'll be fine, Murph. Shit's gonna work out."

He nodded. He supposed he was going to have to take his turn at bat and address things with Renata, hopefully figuring out whether this was just another of his infatuations. If only she had come with them, rather than stay behind for a fucking _ shower-_

He paused as the elevator door slid open on the ground floor, standing in place while Connor stepped out. "On second thought," he said, "go ahead. I'll stay here."

Connor gave him a serious look. "Murph, fussin over shit's not gonna do any good, we gotta fuckin trust her-"

"Shut yer fuckin trap, I'm not _ fussin_ about shit."

"Then what the fuck?"

"I just - gotta talk. Ye had yer chance for that, aye?"

Connor didn't answer and Murphy knew he'd scored a point. Finally he sighed and said, "Fine. Just...be careful, right? Ye know how she's been lately."

Murphy nodded and returned to the fifth floor.

She was already in the shower; he could hear the water running in the hallway as he approached their door. Carefully as he could, he opened the door so it didn't creak and went inside, eyes falling on her immediately. She stood beneath the faucet with her back to him, water streaming in rivulets from her hair and down her body. He felt the familiar rush as he watched her, drinking in the sight of her while need stirred hot in his blood. It_ was_ familiar, he had felt the same thing with all his girlfriends, flings, and one-night-stands. Familiar, and tinged with worry that this was no different.

He moved slowly towards her, undressing as he went and never taking his eyes off her. Hot steam and cool spray contrasted as he drew closer, his palms tingling with the memory of her skin before he ever made contact, laying his hands on her shoulders and murmuring in her ear, "Ye missed a spot."

"I missed several," she replied, thoroughly nonplussed. "I only just got in here."

His brow furrowed but he couldn't help feeling amused. "How the fuck did ye know _I _ was in here?"

"Stealthy you might be, my dear Murphy, but I didn't work in a strip club for four years without learning to notice when someone is staring at my ass from across the room."

He ran his hands through her dripping hair, stepping under the water with her. He felt the usual pang at the mention of her past, thinking of the shit she had been through and what she'd had to survive. He had never felt the same compassion or the urge to protect when any of his other women related their baggage...but then, he'd mostly avoided discussion of baggage in the past, choosing to exist solely in the moment. Under the circumstances, there had been no avoiding learning a history like Renata's. Was all this then just some inevitable byproduct of knowledge he'd never taken the time for before?

"Quiet, you're thinking too loud," she said, interrupting his stewing.

"Sorry," he replied. "Just thinkin."

"About what?"

She might have been onto something in her decision to shower. The warm water was already clearing his head, settling his thoughts in order so he could deal with them one at a time. And the first thing on his mind was- "Russian roulette," he blurted, lightly massaging her scalp.

She hummed in contentment. "Took you long enough to figure that one out..."

"It took picturin that shower." He stepped closer, close enough to give her an idea of the effect such fantasies had on him. "How much hot water do ye think we have left?"

"You'd have a better idea than I would."

He gave her an inarticulate grunt in response, trying to figure out what to say first and how to say it. He slowly withdrew his hands from her hair, fingertips working in tiny circles down her neck and to her shoulders. There was a lot of tension stored in the muscle and sinew, enough she resisted at first, but he was careful and gentle. Soon enough, she relaxed and gave in. "Down farther...a little to the left..."

He followed her suggestion. "How's that?"

She gave a throaty moan of satisfaction. "Oh my_ God,_ Murph..."

He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling tense and in need of handling himself. "Hush, woman," he chided, "ye're distractin me."

That, at least, was a new one. He'd never told a woman _ not_ to moan his name before.

"You'd be loud, too," she informed him, "if it was your hands on you."

He smirked. "Been there, done that, sweetheart. Had ta survive puberty somehow."

She put her hands out to brace herself against the shower wall, arching her back as he continued to work along her spine. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining her pressed against the wall and moaning even louder as he pounded into her from behind, but he kept his voice steady and said, "I talked ta Connor."

"This morning?" she guessed.

"Aye."

"Mm. What about?"

"This afternoon...other shit..." Be careful, Connor had said, but fuck. He hardly knew what to say at all, much less how to be careful about it. Finally, he took a deep breath and plunged in. "Ye're not the only one that's worried, ye know."

She didn't tense, exactly, but she no longer seemed quite as relaxed. "Oh?"

"Aye," he went on. "Ye're worried somethin here's gonna change an' ye'll be alone again, while Connor an' I are worried about yer worryin, and-" He halted, suddenly embarrassed and still not sure what he was going to say.

She shifted to turn around and face him but he kept a firm grip on her shoulders; there was enough pressure without her staring at him waiting for him to speak. She seemed to understand, raising her hand to cover his and prompting gently, "Go on."

He sighed again. "I just...I dunno if this will turn out the way it usually does." Still holding onto her, he ran his hands down the length of her arms, leaving no doubt what "this" meant.

She laced her fingers through his when their hands met and asked, "How does it usually turn out, Murph?"

"I can't hold back at first," he replied. "I'm all in from the jump."

"Hm. I'd noticed that much."

"Had ye? When I say all in, I mean _ all in."_

She_ did_ tense at that, slightly, but just enough for him to notice when she relaxed again. "Oh."

"Aye," he said, feeling foolish and sounding apologetic. "I didn't think too much about it coz ye were leavin after Reg an' it's usually over quick anyway, but then..."

"Then I stayed," she finished for him, "and fucked shit up."

"Aye," he said again. "I mean, no, ye didn't. We didn't see ye comin in the first place, an' we didn't expect ye ta stick around, we thought it was gonna be over an' done. _I _ thought it'd be over an' done."

She gave an echo of his sigh. "But I'm still here, and it's not over."

"Aye. An' I still don't...I mean, I don't wanna make shit complicated or fuck this up for anyone, it's just that...rushin in fast..."

Her fingers tightened over his. "You tend to rush out just as fast."

He slid his arms around her without letting go of her hands and rested his cheek on the crown of her head. The warm water surrounded both of them, wound together as they were with skin melding against skin. He had wanted this since the beginning, like he usually did, and now felt for the first time what a loaded gun his own heart was. "I can't help it," he said, "an' ye sure as fuck don't need another jackass wakin up an' decidin he doesn't feel the same in the mornin as he did the night before."

"You think you're that jackass?" she asked.

"Well, I'm not sayin I just_ decide _ somethin like that," he explained, "it's just that - well, ye know what I mean? It just...happens." He had accepted it in the past as something regrettable but ultimately inevitable, and he'd never felt ashamed of his fickle attachments.

Not until now, that is.

She paused for a moment, thinking. It wasn't a stretch to believe his description of himself. Impulsive, hot-headed, emotional...she had guessed all of that already. And she supposed that it_ did_ make sense that he would be as quick in his feelings as he said; after all, she had been prone to such feelings herself not so long ago. She understood what had him worried. If they carried on down the road they were traveling, it would make things harder in the end if his emotions were as fleeting as he feared.

She didn't know what was warmer, the water or his body as he held her closer to him. "I don't wanna be the next guy ta let ye down."

If only she knew what to say to that. She twisted her hand in his and reached for a bar of soap, guiding him along with her, running the soap across her skin with his hand still clasped over hers.

He seemed startled. "What are ye doin?" he asked.

"What I got in here to do," she replied.

"Well...can't ye say somethin?"

"What do you want me to say, Murphy? You're scared this will go the way it always does for you, and I think it's pretty damn noble of you to say so. And I don't want this to go the same way, either, but none of this is exactly normal, ideal circumstances, it's..."

"It's fuckin complicated," he finished.

She lathered her neck and shoulders, still steering him along. "Yeah. Exactly."

She felt him react as their hands moved between her breasts and she wondered if her heart was pounding hard enough for him to feel it. Connor had told him about their conversation in the car and the things she feared about all of...this. That fucking snitch. But now she knew Murphy's secret reservations as well, and maybe that made a difference. Maybe they could watch out for each other, take steps towards what they wanted while making sure nobody got hurt. It was a gamble, a _ huge_ fucking gamble, but maybe - dear God, did she dare even think it? Last night's terror of what she was risking came back to her, more so now that she could see how close she was to what she was afraid to have.

He felt her freeze up and turned his head to try and peer into her face. "Are ye okay?" he asked.

She started to say_ I'm fine_ but something stopped the words, perhaps the shy vulnerability she still heard in his voice, changing them to an equally shy, "I don't know."

Whether he could feel her heart or not, she could feel his beating against her back, and she wanted so badly for them to be in tandem, an identical rhythm the likes of which she had never known before. He and Connor were different from the other men she had loved, and they wouldn't leave her as the others had. When - _ if, _ she dared to hope - if they left, it would be as today, because their mission called them and she wasn't allowed to follow. Not because they wanted to, but because they had to. They wouldn't abandon her because their feelings had changed.

_ Lies, _ her mind insisted, _ and you're only telling them to yourself, Malone. And to them as well. _ Her time alone was fast approaching, when she would face what she couldn't tell Connor the night before, giving a partial truth to avoid a more terrible honesty. She wanted them, but she couldn't have them, probably wasn't good enough to lick dirt from their boots. If they knew why she really belonged with the dregs of society, they would have no choice but to leave her. And she couldn't hope to keep a secret like that forever.

God, it was so unfair for them all to get so far and fall so deep, when pain and devastation was inevitable. One more reason to doubt the benign, loving Creator that had set them so far above her. That gap couldn't be bridged, no matter how they tried...

He held her so carefully, his arms around her and the soap still in her palm, though she wasn't concerned with her shower anymore. No one else had ever held her the way he and Connor did, like nothing in the world could harm her as long as they were around. No one else had touched her as though she was a sacred relic to be treated with reverence and adoration. And difficult as it was to believe, after so many years of loss and disappointment, her tired heart remembered to beat again as it yearned to find their rhythm.

Jesus Christ, it wasn't fair...

"Do you feel the same, Murph?" she asked hesitantly. "As you usually do?"

That was something else he hadn't considered that now seemed too late to think about. It was the same need, the same desperate passion - but standing with her there under the water, skin to skin and simply holding her in his arms, had he ever felt this close to someone, this content to just..._ be? _ It was enough just to know she was there, and that had never happened before.

"No," he answered. "I don't." He turned her face towards his and kissed her, as gently as he had ever kissed before, and she let the soap fall from her hand as she reached up to twine her fingers into his sodden hair and draw him closer. Maybe they couldn't bridge that gap, maybe they were adding another bullet to the gun, but did it make a difference? It was too late for fairness and too late to save anyone the pain of the wounds to come, so there was no point holding back anymore.

She was all in.

The water was hot, but the fire in his blood put it to shame. That heat was familiar, that need to have her _ right this minute, _ but there was something deeper that remained undiminished, as if possession wasn't enough. It made him think that if he could, he wouldn't hesitate to rip their bodies apart until he found their souls within and twist them together so there was no dividing one from the other; _that_ was new. And if he couldn't have that, he didn't want anything else.

He untangled her hand from his hair and pressed it against the shower wall, flattening his palm against her belly and pulling her back into him. She broke away from his lips and leaned with him, his cock pressing into her back sparking that same desperate yearning she'd felt for Connor the night before. What began with one would end with the other, and she didn't want it any other way. Both of them, or neither.

Murphy didn't move, and she knew he was only waiting for her word. She nodded, and his hand left her belly to rest at her hip a moment later as he pushed himself into her. She closed her eyes as every sensation intensified, the warmth of the water, the tingle of every drop against her skin, the solid feel of him behind her, inside her, his hand keeping hers pressed to the wall. She could feel the strength and power in him and she marveled at it, but not as much as at his control over it. He could tear her apart with his bare hands, swept up in the force of his own passion, and she sensed it every time they were together, always held in check so as not to cause harm in the pursuit of ecstasy. But she didn't want control, not anymore. She wanted to be swept up in that power, and he didn't have to say a word for her to know it was hers to command, to be leashed or turned free at her desire...

She reached with her free hand to cover his at her hip. "_ Move, _ Murphy."

He started slowly, not wanting to cause either of them to lose their precarious footing. She leaned back into him, going just as carefully, her fingers tightening over his. It was strange and startling to be cocooned together, skin hot and slick with water and senses heightened to such an acute degree he felt her breath as his and his pulse as hers, and he doubted he could feel more one with her if he tried.

Then she slid her hand up his wrist and dug in with her nails, and something changed. The sharp sting snatched him out of his near-trance, the tiny bite of pain calling deeper instincts to the surface, breaking down the barriers he had maintained with her in the past.

He didn't even notice the change in his rhythm or the force of his movements, harder, rougher, faster, holding tight to her with all the strength in his body. Breath came in short bursts, his in low growls and hers in high gasps. She clutched harder at his wrist and he gripped hers in reflex, keeping her trapped against the shower wall as if he meant to put her through it and feeling her pulse race beneath his fingers. She shuddered and thrashed, pushing back against him, and he wrenched his hand out of her grasp, pressing into her throat until he felt her heartbeat, wilder than ever and sending him into a greater frenzy. She felt so amazing...so_ alive..._

She let out a stifled noise that made him stop mid-thrust, holding himself back through sheer force of will. She stood tense and rigid, both hands against the wall with her elbows locked to keep from being driven flat against it. He hadn't noticed when she stopped moving with him and focused instead on remaining upright, body frozen and eyes screwed shut in a way that told him everything he needed to know.

"Fuck," he sighed, relaxing his grip. He'd be surprised if she didn't bruise at her wrist and while he had stopped short of strangling her, the hand at her neck was holding on a bit tighter than necessary. "I'm hurtin ye."

She shook her head, not arguing with him but dismissing his observation. "I don't mind."

"Well, I do," he replied. He released her and turned her in his arms, though still half-crazed with unsatisfied lust. She nestled against him, laying her head on his chest, and he could feel slight tremors running through her, reminding him of his own aggression. "Christ, Renata, I'm a fuckin idiot," he accused himself. "Why the fuck didn't ye say somethin?"

She wrapped herself tighter around him. "I don't want to be scared," she replied.

"Of what?"

"Getting hurt."

He paused, puzzled. "Literally, or figuratively?"

She sighed. "I need to know if it's worth it."

"I dunno if that's s'posed ta be a compliment or an insult, but-"

"If we do this," she said, with a note of finality that made him think she wasn't talking about sex, "then it has to be worth it."

"Worth what?"

"Anything. Whatever happens."

He smoothed a hand over her sopping hair and felt her tremors subside. "Aye," he agreed. "Whatever happens."

They stood holding onto each other, heedless of the passage of time, when the shower finally ran cold and a blast of icy water brought them crashing back to reality. Letting out startled exclamations of surprise, they broke apart and stumbled away from the shower, shivering and steadying each other on the slippery floor. "I warned ye before," Murphy said, handing her a towel and beginning to smile. "Russian roulette."

"Yeah, I know," she replied, wringing out her hair and taking the towel. "And thanks to you, I didn't get my fucking shower."

He smiled wider and took another towel for himself; she tucked hers around her body and stepped forward to wordlessly take his from his hands, drying him off herself. He watched her for a moment, feeling a strange but serene sense of closeness, then reached out to her and unwound her towel to do the same for her. She met his gaze and held it as they worked their way deeper into each others arms, doing less and less drying and instead exploring bare skin, eventually letting the towels drop to the floor as she leaned up to him and he met her halfway, mouths finding each other as steps moved closer to the bed.

They tumbled onto the mattress and she grew more reckless, demanding more of him with lips and fingers, but he gathered both of her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head, deliberately gentle this time. His free hand traced her throat and collarbones, where the marks he'd left were fading but still visible, and he bowed his head to lay penitent kisses to the worst of them.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting him move across her neck. She still wanted him to let go and give her everything he had, but he seemed determined to atone for his forceful handling. He released her wrists and moved his hands along her body like a sculptor shaping his masterpiece, devoted attention in every touch. Her skin burned wherever his lips brushed and caressed, from her neck to her breasts and across her stomach, blazing stronger as he neared her pelvis, and she opened her eyes again. "Murphy."

He paused, meeting her gaze, and she stared him down without another word, her meaning plain enough. She was going to watch, and she expected no less from him.

He gave no outward sign of understanding, but he didn't look away again, angling her legs over his shoulders and bowing his head.

One of his favorite things about fucking her was going down on her. The salt of her skin, the sweetness of her arousal, the give and take nature of serving her and having her wholly open to him. He curled one hand around her thigh, spreading her legs a bit more, all the while holding her gaze, her eyes dark and hazy and mirroring his own in terms of desire. He hummed softly against her and she responded with a pleading whimper, drawing a deeper moan of satisfaction from him. This was definitely his favorite thing to do to her.

If he was trying to make amends, he was doing an amazing job of it. Apart from that, he seemed to love what he was doing as much as she did, lapping her up as though he'd never get enough of her. He still clutched at her thigh, but his free hand moved up over her hip and paused at her waist; she fitted her fingers over his, _aequitas _ disappearing beneath her palm, and guided him to her breasts, tightening her grip and urging him to squeeze. He did, and her breath caught on a broken cry tearing from her throat, growing louder as he brushed her clit with the tip of his nose and his tongue darted deeper. His eyes grew more intense with every passing moment and she didn't try to hide her need or her pleasure, knowing that when the time came he wouldn't hold back.

Dear God, she clutched at his hand like an anchor to keep from losing herself in the rush. He could feel every line of tension in her body, winding tighter with every flick and stroke of his tongue. Her whimpers grew louder and more frequent, and he wanted more of them. He held tighter with both hands and a shudder passed through her, bending her spine and lifting her hips to his ravenous mouth. She was almost there, he could hear it in her voice and feel it in her body...Christ, he could fucking_ taste_ it...

God, oh God, it was happening, she was coming and she couldn't fight it if she wanted to, she doubted he'd let her anyway and - and -

She might have screamed, but she couldn't hear over the ringing in her ears. She might have dug her nails deep enough into his hand to draw blood, but she couldn't feel her body beyond pure ecstasy washing through her. She couldn't see anything but the cool blue eyes darkened almost to black staring up at her as though powerless to break away, and the only word in her mind echoed in its own refrain..._Murphy, Murphy, Murphy..._

He didn't let her stop, unrelenting as she cried out again and again, wanting to keep her as high as he could for as long as possible. She was coming hard and fast and he could practically drink her, intoxicated with her taste and his cock throbbing harder than ever. He freed his hand from her grip, dimly noting more marks from her fingernails, and grabbed hold of himself, working fast to finish before he lost his mind - it wouldn't take much more, the way she kept calling his name like that.

She saw what he was doing and snatched a fistful of his hair, dragging him away from her body. His scalp stung and he kind of liked it, though at the look in her eyes he forced himself to lower his hand and be still.

"Not yet," she said, raspy and breathless from shouting.

He moved up to where she lay, hovering over her and looking down into her eyes. He reached for her hands, twining their fingers together as he pressed her down into the mattress, grinding his hips into hers and feeling her damp and slick where he was hard and aching. "If this goes arseways, can we still be friends?" he joked.

"Fuck you," she replied, curling her legs around him and turning them both, rolling on top of him. She slammed her lips down onto his, tasting herself on his tongue. She aligned their bodies just right and they shifted together, merging as one as easily as if they belonged that way. She gasped as the slightest movement threatened to push her over the edge again and he grinned wickedly up at her, his smirk widening as the first few motions of her hips had her arching back and moaning anew. It felt good just being inside her, but not nearly as good as feeling her climax around him, her body taking pleasure in his and urging him to reciprocate. "Keep goin, girl," he beckoned, adding slyly, "if ye can."

He didn't have a word to describe the look she gave him, but he likened it to a she-wolf on the hunt, wild but focused, intent on her prey and set on victory. Something similar stirred in his veins, resolving him to respond, like two wild creatures calling to each other and answering in kind. And he didn't have to think about it this time to know he'd never felt something like it before.

She began to move, rocking and flexing, leaning forward with her hands on his chest. Her breasts jostled with the motion and he grabbed her ass to steer her faster, though as her legs clenched tighter around his hips he felt less like he was steering and more like she intended to ride him to her satisfaction no matter what he did.

Her hands moved again, sliding up his chest with one resting at the back of his neck and the other twisting into his still-dripping hair, tugging him forward into a sitting position. Their arms automatically went around each other, groping frantically as they struggled for dominance, each racing to bring the other to completion.

He yanked her closer, pushing himself deeper, and she let out a shriek, pleasure spiked with pain; he seized the moment to take control again and flipped her onto her back, leaning heavily on his arms and bearing down on her.

She still had her hands at his neck and hair and she pulled insistently, urging him down to her. He grasped a handful of her hair and tugged back to expose her throat, lowering his mouth to her skin, sucking and biting. She raked his back and shoulders with her nails, clawing restlessly as she gasped and cried out, nearly loud enough to drown out his own hoarse groan at the sting of torn skin. They pushed each other to the wildest edges of sensation, into nothing but blood and bone and demanding even more than flesh.

She honestly couldn't say who screamed first, only knowing for certain that hers wasn't the only voice raised as ecstasy finally conquered the savagery they inflicted on each other. There was a terrific sense of_ now, _ of being bound so firmly to the present - not to mention bound together - that nothing else in the world mattered. It was something else that made the brothers different, yet similar. Connor could stop time in its tracks, and Murphy could draw back the curtain on its insignificance. Either way, it had no meaning when she was with them, dissolving into euphoria once again.

When she finally came back to herself, it was to find Murphy all but collapsed on top of her, laying as though he'd never move again. She could sympathize, feeling as though every bone and muscle had disconnected, but she summoned the energy to say, "I can't breathe, Murph."

He moved without a word, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him to lay curled against his chest. She went without protest; she didn't want to part with him any more than he did. At the circle's close, starting with one brother and ending with the other - each only half of himself without his twin - she had been fractured and remade with all they had to give her, leaving her with the answer to the question Connor had put to her, and the backbone to admit it. She had stayed because of them. For better or worse, it was all because of them, and for now nothing else mattered.

Awareness returned slowly but steadily as breath and heartbeat evened out and everything felt connected again. She frowned slightly as she lifted her head and glanced across the room. "Do you pay utilities here?" she asked.

"Why?" he replied, too dazed to be confused by the question.

"Because," she said, the frown shaping into a lopsided version of her usual grin, "we left the shower running."

** Whew. I'm exhausted. Leave me some love on your way out, if you'd be so kind, and wish me luck for the next chapter! There's a little more to discuss before the boys go shooting up poker games!**

** And a note to ktschott7...I hope this lived up to your expectations! I gave it my all with you in mind!**


	24. A Show of Faith

** Happy Labor Day! Hopefully you guys get to enjoy the day doing whatever you're doing. I pulled a long shift at work, but it's holiday pay so I'm not complaining. LOL I think I finally got this the way I wanted it, knock on wood. Believe me, this chapter looks much different from the original draft, and it's all the better for it, better reflecting the characters and the people they've grown into.**

**Of course, there's music. Pick from "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica (though Staind and Godsmack ain't too bad), "Do I Have To Say The Words?" by Bryan Adams (sooooo freaking romantic) or"Stay A Little Longer" by Brothers Osborne (album version with full instrumentals is pretty cool, but the acoustic at Bing Lounge owns my soul) and you'll have properly set the mood. Enjoy!**

The door swung open about ten minutes later and Connor stepped into the loft laden with coffee and to-go boxes. "If ye wanna get decent an' eat somethin," he announced, "we gotta get this show on the road."

Renata heaved a sigh, then ruffled Murphy's hair and placed a final kiss at the corner of his mouth before rolling out of bed in search of clothes. Murphy gave Connor a look that bordered on annoyance only to be met with an unapologetic shrug as he followed Renata out of bed. Connor's eyes went from the bite marks on her neck to the scratches on Murphy's back and wrists, and he narrowed his eyes at his twin. _ You call that careful?_

Murphy copied his shrug, his trademark smirk making it clear he had zero fucks to give.

"Something smells good," Renata remarked, drawing her baggy sweatshirt over her head and combing her fingers through her damp hair. "Just in time, too. I was about to starve to death."

"Ye've been active this mornin," Connor replied ironically. His gaze moved to the shower; the water still ran freely, unchecked since Renata turned it on. "Ah, for fuck's sake," he groused, crossing the room to shut it off, "ye couldn't wait ta turn off the fuckin water?"

"What're ye talkin about?" Murphy asked, tugging on his jeans. "We couldn't even wait ta get outta the fuckin water."

"We're animals, baby," Renata added. To illustrate her point, she flung an arm around Connor's neck as they headed toward the table and gave him a lusty kiss, licking his cheek for good measure.

He delivered a quick swat to her backside. "Behave yerself," he ordered.

"You ought to know better than that by now," she replied, adding with a grin, "and you don't offer much incentive."

"We'll see about that," he promised. "Now sit down an' eat."

"Yes, sir."

The three of them settled around the table, hardly speaking as they concentrated on breakfast yet still dialed into each other. Murphy winced as he reached for a to-go box and the scratches on his back stung anew, and Renata laid a hand gently on his arm. He took it in his, thumb brushing across her knuckles before giving a gentle squeeze and releasing her again. Connor piled food in front of her and handed her a large cup of coffee before nudging her leg under the table, urging her to eat. She gave him an appreciative smile as she took the fork he offered her, trading it for a napkin from the pile beside her.

It was quiet for several minutes as they ate, then Connor announced, "I called Roc while I was out. He said he had ta pick up that van, an' he'd be on his way over."

"He won't be too long, then," Renata observed.

"Nah. Prolly not."

She nodded, turning her attention back to her food and looking somber.

"Hey," he said, nudging her leg again. She ignored him and he reached out with a hand under her chin, tilting her face up. "It'll be all right," he said encouragingly. "It's only for a few hours."

"Yeah," she replied. "I know. It's just that there was something to_ do_ at Reg's house. Now, I'm fucked if I can't think of something to distract myself."

"Ye can always think of us," Murphy suggested, his tone light but his gaze earnest.

"There's half the problem. Thinking of you will make me worry about you."

"No need, love," Connor assured her. "We're sittin with the only fucker I'd trust with me life, an' I know ye don't think much a Rocco, but he's a good one ta have at yer back."

"Besides, we have God on our side," Murphy added.

"God an' big guns."

"An' Connor's fuckin rope."

Connor threw a half-eaten pancake at Murphy.

"There we go," she said. "I'll spend the time imagining what the big deal is about this rope."

"It's a good story," Connor promised. "I'll tell ye when we get back."

"And in the meantime, I'll think of all the fun stuff you can do with rope," she teased. "Might have to try a few of them out later once you're home."

They all shared a laugh heavy with suggestion and anticipation, the air already charged with need, yet she sensed even more than that flowing back and forth on the current that ran between them. It was the physical vibe between lovers, and it was also the comfort of companions, the trust of friends...

"My God, what are we doing?" she asked suddenly, incredulous and astonished. "This is crazy!"

"What's crazy?" Murphy inquired.

"This!" she replied. Her heart was beating furiously against her ribs as if trying to smash its way out of her chest and spill out onto the table just to be nearer to them. It had always been the most reckless, vulnerable part of her, and it was chasing after them with a veneration that caught even her by surprise. "This thing going on, it's not normal!"

"Well, times are changin," Connor said lightly. "I don't s'pose threesomes are as taboo as they used ta be."

"Not that," she insisted. "Not_ just_ that. If that was all there was to it, it wouldn't be such a big deal."

"Then ye admit it's a big deal," Murphy interjected smugly.

"You_ know_ it's a big deal, smart ass," she replied. "And it's fucking insane. You two are on a holy mission to kill bad guys, I make a living pushing pills and showing my tits, and less than a month ago, we didn't know we even existed. How in God's name did our paths cross in the first place, much less turn into..._ this."_

"This big deal, ye mean," Connor stated.

"Well, yeah. I mean, I look at you both and I want to drag both of you to bed and keep you there for all eternity, but that's not the end of it. I want more from you, and I want you to want more from me, and-"

She stopped, suddenly worried she had said too much. Every other time she had dared to want more, she had fallen on her face, reaching for something that wasn't there. But...God, _ please_ not this time. This time had to be different, and she could almost believe it was; they made her believe it. And yet they sat there and said nothing. "Am I crazy?"

"Aye, girl, crazy as fuckin hell," Connor told her. He studied her face, paying close attention to her eyes, and they were just as wild and yearning as the night before when she dangled on the edge of madness at his whim. This time, though, desperate as she was for reassurance, the sight gave him no pleasure. He couldn't leave her at the end of the noose this time. "Trouble is," he added, "I think yer crazy is contagious."

"We thought it'd be no skin off our backs when ye left," Murphy joined in, "then when it looked like ye were leavin...it just...it felt_ wrong _ta let ye go, when havin ye here was so-" He paused, looking embarrassed again. "It seemed ta fit, ye bein with us. That first night was as much about that as anythin else."

"It wasn't just about sex, ye know?" Connor said. "I mean, that part was fuckin great-"

"Amen," she broke in with a smile.

"But there was more to it, ye see? Did ye feel it that first time? It was just like Murph said, it seemed ta fit. It's...it's like the difference between thinkin, believin, an' _ knowin. _ Ye spend half yer life thinkin ye're put on this earth for a reason, ye believe there's a plan for ye in all this, an' then all of a sudden ye just_ know." _ He couldn't help his own smile as he recalled the last time he'd tried to explain it to her. "As certain as knowin yer own name."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. "Ye start out crazy enough ta think there's someone out there just as fuckin crazy, maybe even the same kind a crazy as you. Then ye think it long enough ta start believin in someone like that, an' then one night ye just...well, ye just_ know."_

She looked back and forth between them as they spoke, blissfully unaware she was holding her breath as she listened until they fell silent and her lungs cried for air. She took a deep breath and said, "Don't stop now, boys, you were getting to the good part."

"That's the truth of it," Connor told her. "Ye just fuckin know. An' after that, ye know ye can't be the fuckin eejit that's stupid enough ta let it walk away. No matter what it takes, ye gotta hold onto it."

"Whatever it took ta convince ye ta stick around," Murphy said, "an' trust me, sweetheart, ye've never seen em as shameless as the two of us. There's not a lot we wouldna done ta keep ye. But we didn't have ta do anythin at all, ye just stayed. Who knew if ye just wanted a roof over yer head or what, but...it was nice ta think ye liked us."

"Nice ta think maybe ye knew the same as we did," Connor finished.

She let out a deep sigh and said, "I knew. It scared the shit out of me, and it still does, but I knew. Maybe not right away, and even then I didn't want to admit it-"

"Ye don't say?" Connor broke in, teasing. "Certainly took ye long enough ta figure it out."

"But ye managed it after all, so we won't hold it against ye," Murphy added.

"Oh, well, thanks for that," she said. "How fortunate I've been landed with two such understanding lads. I'd have been doing good to get just one of you!"

"Aye, fuckin stellar, I'd say."

"Ye hit the jackpot, love, gettin two for the price a one."

"You've never done anything like this before, though. Are you okay with it being both of you?"

"It's one a the stipulations, ye see," Murphy replied, reaching across the table to give Connor a clap on the shoulder. "Love me, love me brother."

Connor nodded. "What he said."

"You know what I mean."

"Aye. We do. Are we gonna have ta compete for yer fond attention?"

"You haven't so far."

"Ye gonna promise not ta play favorites?" Murphy asked.

"I already have."

"Well then."

He made it sound so easy, and maybe it was. In no conceivable manner could she imagine one without the other, each was such an integral part of the other, and they had balanced her out from the start as a unit and as individuals. There had never been any need to compete, not when they each held her attention the way they did.

Yeah, it was that easy.

"Now that we got that outta the way," Murphy went on, "we can get ta the whole fuckin point."

"Which is?" she asked.

"What's in yer head," Connor answered. "What ye're thinkin an' feelin."

She leaned back in her chair. "I thought we cleared that up already."

"Not quite. It's nice ta hear it out loud, ye know."

She heaved a sigh. "I'm thinking that we're all out of our fucking minds, and I'm feeling like I don't care."

"Because..." Murphy prompted.

"You're just itching to hear it, aren't you?"

"Like Connor said, it's nice ta hear it."

She glanced between them. They were beaming so innocently at her, damn them, humor and mischief tempered with hope. "I'm not alone in this shenanigan, am I?" she asked.

"Fuckin hell, girl, haven't ye been listenin?" Connor replied. "If ye still gotta wonder about that, ye might as well clear the fuck out right now."

"Aye," Murphy agreed. "Ye're stuck with us now, like it or not."

"Then we don't need to say anything," she insisted. "Not if we all agree we already know."

"C'mon, Renata, it's okay ta say it," Murphy urged. "We're all in this together."

"I know."

Connor leaned toward her, his gaze unflinching and his voice held soft and steady. "Ye know we've never just said shit," he told her. "Never said anythin for the hell of it."

"I know that, too," she replied. "And it's not about the speaking, but the doing. You've done more for me than anyone else ever has, and definitely more than anyone who just said shit. More than I have a right to ask for. Why would I need you to say anything after all that?"

Connor regarded her, then nodded. "Aye, then," he agreed. "We're gonna keep doin this our way."

"What way's that?"

"Wing it."

She smiled. "Deal."

For a moment they sat in silence, the unspoken words forming a pact between them that couldn't be undone. It was no wonder Renata put so little weight on the words themselves, because there simply weren't words enough to give voice to what they had already acknowledged with their actions. It was something of value, something to be cherished with every breath, and words alone couldn't do it justice.

It was with reluctance that Connor checked the time. "We gotta move, Murph. Roc'll be waitin on us."

Murphy nodded and got to his feet to finish dressing. Renata remained sitting at the table, studying Connor as he sat next to her, memorizing every detail. The dirty blonde hair carelessly sticking up in all directions. The scar at his left eyebrow. The planes and angles of his cheekbones and jaw line. The mouth that was serious in repose yet smiled easier than any she had ever seen. The stunning blue eyes that took in her scrutiny with equal parts tenderness and curiosity. "Ye plan on sketchin me from memory while we're gone?" he inquired.

She shrugged one shoulder and kept staring. The casual grace of his posture, so relaxed and approachable though she knew full well how alert he really was. The strength of those arms, a smoothly chiseled line all the way down to the hand resting on the table, still extended towards her with the fingers curled slightly, and she read the blue ink that stood out so proudly against the golden skin.

_ Truth._

"Maybe something to keep me company until you get back," she answered.

"So, ye're gonna miss us?"

"You already know the answer to that."

"Aye, but it's nice ta hear it sometimes," Murphy chimed in, pulling a shirt over his head and echoing Connor's words. She turned her eyes on him. There was something both boyish and broody about him, the lines of his face softer yet his expression bordering on the defiant side. She never knew whether he was about to smirk or scowl. The bone structure and pale complexion could almost be described as delicate, offset by the stubborn set of his jaw and the taunting look in his eyes, voicing a challenge to the world without making a sound. His hair was still damp from the shower, making it seem darker than usual, and was severely tousled from their rendezvous, and as her glance swept over those broad shoulders she felt a twinge of satisfaction to think she had left her mark on him barely an hour before. He lifted his hand to scratch lazily at his scalp and she caught another flash of ink, the tattoo a twin to his brother's.

_ Justice._

"I can't keep you from what you've got to do," she said, "but I can't act like it doesn't bother me to stay back and worry."

He went to her and combed her hair back from her face, lifting her chin to look into her eyes. "We're comin back, ye know. Have we ever steered ye wrong?"

"Did I say that?"

His thumb brushed gently over her lips, his fingertips tracing her cheekbones, and she watched as the challenge in his eyes softened. God, those eyes, just as stunning as Connor's, and focused on her with compassion. "Then how 'bout somethin ta remember til we're back?" he offered. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and she burrowed willingly into the embrace, pressing her cheek against his chest and looping her arms around his waist. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, the smell of cigarettes clinging to him along with the faintest traces of soap, and underneath that was Murphy musk, just as potent, intoxicating and comforting as Connor's scent.

There was a stirring of movement behind her and Connor was at her back, snaking his arms around her and resting his chin on her shoulder. "We're here right now, an' it won't be long til we're back," he promised. "Ye can keep us in yer head til then, an' we'll do the same for you."

"You promise?" she asked.

"We've never just said shit," Murphy reminded her.

"An' that_ is _a promise," Connor concluded.

None of them wanted to move, and yet movement was inevitable. They disentangled, Murphy to put on his boots and Connor to gather their duffel bags, and Renata stood as they put on their coats and hung their rosaries about their necks. "You're both impossible," she informed them. "You'd better fucking look out for each other. I want you both back here in one piece."

"Christ, Renata, ye sound like our mother," Connor said.

"She seems like a smart lady. Who knows what kind of shit you two get into unsupervised."

"Same goes for you," Murphy told her. "Ye gotta take care a yerself while we're gone."

She smiled at them. "I've got something to remember until you're back."

Walking with them to the door, she couldn't help but think of a few of her better dates, when the night was going too well to end and nobody wanted to say goodnight. There was the same hesitation, the urge to dawdle spurred by a compulsion nearly as strong as gravity. They both hugged her one last time and she held onto their hands until the last possible second, stopping at the door as they stepped out into the hallway, both of them looking desperate to speak. "Renata-"

"Don't say it," she said. "If either of you says it, I won't let you leave, and I can't be what keeps you from what you're called to do."

They both held onto her just a little longer, then slowly let go. She stood watching as they headed to the elevator, intending to keep them in her sight as long as she could-

There was perhaps a millisecond between the two of them as they dropped their duffels and turned back to her, running as fast as they could while doing their best to trip each other up. Murphy won the race, catching her up and lifting her off her feet as he swept her in for a long, slow kiss, so soft and sweet it almost broke her heart with its sincerity. And just when she thought she'd never find the will to let go, he set her down and spun her into Connor's waiting arms; he folded her body into his and pressed his lips to her forehead before finding her mouth, and it was truly amazing how they could both reassure her the way they did and make the ground disappear beneath her feet at the same time. The way they held her, she wasn't convinced the earth was solid under them either. She might be falling, but at least they were going with her; she just_ knew._

Connor finally drew back, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Take care a yerself, Renata," he said. "Ye're a lot stronger than ye think ye are."

She smiled. "Truth from the man himself."

"It sets ye free, doesn't it?" Murphy asked. He took her hand and pulled her in to give her a kiss on the cheek and added, "He's right, ye know. It doesn't happen that fuckin often, but it happens."

"That's gobshite, Murph," Connor shot back. "I'm a fuckin genius, an' ye bloody well know it."

Murphy rolled his eyes and gave Renata's hand one last squeeze. "Chin up, love. We'll be back."

"You promise?" she asked.

"Aye," Connor answered. "We promise." He drew her in for another hug and added, "God keep ye, d'Artagnan."

"You as well," she replied as he released her and she turned to Murphy. "Both of you." They parted again with even greater reluctance than before and the brothers headed back to the elevator, picking up their bags as they passed. They gave her a final wave and she waved back, then the elevator moved and they were gone.

It felt strange going back into the empty apartment, accustomed as she was to having the boys there. The silence weighed heavier as she sat at the table again, still covered in the remains of breakfast. Only moments before, they had sat there with her saying everything that needed to be said and giving her one more talisman to see her through their absence. She raised her hand to touch her lips but stopped, not wanting anything to banish the feeling of those kisses they had sprinted through the hallway like maniacs to give. They had never done that before. There had only been kisses when there was sex involved until now. They had never kissed her for no reason at all...unless it was for a reason she had already kept them from saying aloud. She could leave it to them to find a loophole, a way of giving one last bit of honesty, a gift of strength, and a show of faith.

She couldn't betray their faith. She would hold onto her memories of them as the darker ones she could no longer poison away crept closer. Her boys believed in her and they were coming back to her, and that would get her through until they did.

It_ had_ to. She couldn't bear to think of the consequences if it didn't.

** Well...they said it! In their own way, but they said it! And you can guess what's coming next, right? Yep, it all hits the fan, which means I've got a lot of juggling to do to get this right. Which is a long way of saying bear with me, this thing isn't getting any easier and I want to do my best for you. In the meantime, I've got something to keep you entertained for awhile... I've started posting a little nugget called "Just Being Neighborly," a tie-in that you might want to take a look at if you haven't already.**

** See you soon! Leave me some love on your way out!**


	25. Ricochet

** Happy All Saints Day, and in honor of the occasion, let's have an update!**

** To the new readers, welcome! To the old readers, welcome back! I'll spare you all the gory details, but this chapter (and likely the next few to come) was trouble incarnate. (Well, maybe a few details like my dog eating part of the paper draft and the document crashing with over two thousand unsaved words on it including a ton of spur-of-the-moment edits. No kidding.) Thanks to my lovely Starcrier for her wisdom; she made the call to split a very long and complex update into two shorter, slightly less complex ones. Which means you MIGHT get the next one sooner...**

**In other news, yours truly had a run-in with Connor MacManus himself! The one and only SPF was in town for a book signing and the stars aligned (with a little push and shove, that is) for me to finally get a day off and get my behind down there. Believe the hype, he IS that nice and he IS that hilarious.**

** Because desperation has been the name of the game for this one, I refer you to Fuel's "Hemorrhage." No song conveys said desperation better. I lost count of how many times I watched the fire fight scene trying to suck in all the details, distracted as usual by Dafoe in all his glory. LOL And now, on with the show! Enjoy!**

Gunshots created the perfect soundtrack to the chaos on the street. Three against one, bullets flying in all directions, and neither side backing down. The shock of leaving the hit man's house having dispensed divine retribution only to see the old man waiting for them outside with six guns - not six-shooters, but _ six fucking guns _\- had fled within seconds, leaving barely enough time to draw their own weapons as he fired on them and they found themselves once again fighting for their lives.

Rocco dropped to his knees to give Connor and Murphy room to shoot as the old man's first shots reached them. They remained rooted on the doorstep while he moved along the street as calmly and deliberately as if their bullets couldn't touch him and he had all day to complete his objective. It would take him all day, the way he was shooting, emptying the first four magazines in seconds; it was like his entire volley was barely missing them-

Rocco went down, clutching his hand, and moments later Murphy took a hit in the arm and fell back. They both took cover in the bushes flanking the doorstep and kept shooting, leaving Connor standing in battle with the assassin. The old man emptied his last two guns and Connor took aim to finish it, but he drew two more from beneath his coat and advanced. A bullet ripped through Connor's leg and he staggered, his shot going wide, and the old man just kept coming. Letting out a scream of pain and rage, Connor fired again and again, not caring where he was aiming if only one bullet would hit that fucker-

A wild shot struck the old man in the arm and he got in a few more shots, then cursing bitterly to himself, turned and fled.

"Murph!" Connor shouted. "Are ye all right?"

"Motherfucker!" Murphy yelled after the old man, emptying his magazine in rapid fire before staggering to his feet.

They had to move fast. There was no fucking way the scene had gone unnoticed and someone was bound to have called the police already. The brothers snatched up their duffel bags, seizing the bottles of ammonia they had packed and spraying it over the spatters of their own blood staining the doorstep and entryway, then the three of them hurried as fast as they could go to the van parked down the street.

"I can't drive," Connor said, climbing into the back and pressing a hand to his wounded leg. It was gushing like a fucking water fountain, staining his jeans and oozing between his fingers as he tried to keep pressure on it.

"And I'm shit outta fuckin luck," Rocco interjected, waving his injured hand and scattering blood from his missing finger.

"Roc, fuckin watch it!" Connor snarled, using more ammonia on the spatters. It had been his idea to use the chemical to contaminate any DNA evidence they might leave behind. They were lucky to avoid such injury at Reg's house, and it was a chance he didn't want to take again.

Murphy got into the van behind them and drew his knife. "Hold still," he warned Rocco, cutting strips off his shirt for bandages. He bound up the hand and Connor's leg, double- and triple-checking the wrappings before he let Connor dress his arm. "Ye better start watchin yerself," he informed his brother. "I don't wanna be draggin yer ass ta safety the rest a my fuckin life."

"Ye sure ye can drive?" Connor asked.

"Do I have a fuckin choice?"

"You don't drive stick," Rocco pointed out.

"Fuck it! I'll learn!" He got into the driver's seat and started the van, struggling for a moment to get it in gear before heading back out of the neighborhood.

Connor edged closer, trying not to disturb his leg too much and listening intently to the sound of the engine, the roar slowly growing louder as the van built up speed and power. "Now," he said as the engine began to bottom out. "Clutch first."

Murphy shifted and the van lurched; Connor pitched forward and groaned loudly. "Jesus fuckin Christ..."

"Sorry," Murphy said, steering with his bad arm while trying to shift with the other, shooting a concerned look at his twin.

"Don't worry about it," Connor told him, focusing through the pain. "Good thing one of us learned ta drive Uncle Sibéal's truck, aye?" Though as he coached Murph through the rather coordinated task of operating a manual transmission, both of them injured and on edge, he had to admit that driving that old pickup through Irish countryside was a better deal.

They stopped at a side street just outside the hub of the city where they had parked the Lincoln and Murphy took the plates off the van, stowing them in one of their duffel bags. They wiped down the interior for fingerprints and sprayed a few errant bloodstains, leaving nothing that could be traced back to them, and left it parked as they made for the car.

"Still can't believe we have to ditch the fucker," Rocco complained.

"We paid cash for it, it's untraceable," Connor told him, limping on his bad leg. "We mighta been able ta hold onto it, but someone had ta have seen it in all that shit. Thank yer fuckin friend for that."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Rocco demanded. "He ain't _ my_ fuckin friend!"

"Fuckin bullshit, Roc! This is yer shit we're dealin with, he fuckin_ had_ ta be there for you!"

"Well, if you're supposed to be the fuckin brains behind this goddamn fuckin circus-"

"Hey!" Murphy broke in, looking at least as pissed off as the other two. "We don't have time for this shit, so fuckin can it right the fuck now an' let's go!"

Connor and Rocco fell silent and got in the car, Murphy once more getting behind the wheel. "My mom's place is closer," Rocco offered. "She's in Atlantic City for the weekend."

Murphy nodded and they set off again.

* * *

Renata sat on the couch, tapping her foot anxiously and trying not to watch the clock too much. It was easy enough to put on a brave face for the boys as she saw them off, even to stay confident as she settled in to wait, but she had underestimated the force of old habits, paired with her worry for Connor and Murphy and hell, even for Rocco. It left room for other thoughts to creep in, and creep they would if she couldn't keep it together. She folded and unfolded her hands, focusing on one breath after another, tying herself as firmly to her surroundings as she could.

She lit a cigarette then poured herself a whiskey over ice, resisting the urge to throw it all back at once and charge headfirst into a drunken stupor. Before Connor and Murphy, she would have already been wasted by now, unwilling to face the time alone. They believed in her, though, and for their sake she had to believe in herself.

Returning to the couch, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, occasionally lifting the cigarette to her lips for another drag. If she tried hard enough she could picture them both beside her, Connor with a protective arm around her and Murphy cuddling as close as he could get. She could feel them surrounding her, hear their voices in her ears, imagine them so real she could almost touch them, and it was like they hadn't left her at all.

There was nothing wrong with pretending while they were gone. Their faith and their mission was part of who they were, and it would be foolish to wish that away. She couldn't try to keep them with her and keep them from their work. Pretending was okay, as long as it didn't hold them back from dealing their brand of justice to evildoers. Gangsters, criminals, and murderers didn't stand a chance against the instruments of God...

A chill crept along her spine and she took another sip of whiskey, letting the burn of the alcohol pull her back from the dark road her mind was trying to turn down. Forget their mission, _ nobody_ stood a chance against those charming, devious, wonderful men. Least of all her. They had worked their way into her heart against all logic, and even her most determined efforts to hold onto her cynicism and pessimism had proved futile against them. Maybe it was the work of God that put them together; who was she to argue otherwise? It was the work of God that put them on their mission in the first place. The irony was that she should end with them when she knew she belonged on the other side, with those they sought...

_ No, not that..._ Another sip, a slow burn spreading through her body, and it reminded her of them and the way she felt when they were around. Even when they were gone she could_ still_ feel it, and it was stronger than her memories. There wasn't room for anything else as long as she dwelled on Connor and Murphy...just Connor and Murphy, and nothing else...not Reg, not Marcus...not Stacy...

_ No, God no!_

She downed the rest of the whiskey before she had time to rethink it and poured another. She would be damned if the ghosts in her head would win this time. There was the lurking impulse to hide in whatever safe haven she could find, but she wouldn't do it. She was tough enough to outlast the time until the boys were back. They were the strongest thing in her head, not a memory. It didn't matter how fucking bad that memory was, it was only a memory, nothing she couldn't handle. Nothing that could hurt her.

A memory, after all...always laying in the back of her mind where she tried to leave it and never staying put...rising like the ghost she named it...

She emptied the glass again and went straight for the bottle, then halted with it halfway to her lips. Old habits. She couldn't let herself give in, had to tough it out; if she gave an inch she'd end up miles away when one more drink turned into scouting the neighborhood trying to score. She was stronger than that. They both said so, and they never just said shit. It didn't matter what Reg and Marcus had done to her, or what she had done to Stacy...

She might have known it would come to this eventually...

That was all in the past now, she wasn't part of that world anymore, she was_ different..._

She forced herself to lower the bottle, excuses and denials chasing each other through her head as the ghosts rose again, with nothing to drive them away this time...

She was only doing what she had to, like everyone does when faced with survival or extinction. Even Stacy understood that...

The heavy feeling in her chest grew heavier as memory won again...

_ Stacy..._

* * *

"Stacy..."

She recognized the woman on the floor in an instant, even through the blood and bruises on her face. There was dim acknowledgement in eyes fogged over with the drugs they had gotten her hooked on, but not much else. Not pain, not fear, just blank nothingness.

"You see we have a problem here, Renata," Marcus said, laying a hand on her shoulder and gripping tight. "She's been disloyal to us, and we can't tolerate that in this business."

Benny sauntered across the room to where Stacy lay and kicked her in the stomach, and she gave a pitiful moan and rolled onto her back. There was still more blood drying on her thighs, sticky red mixing with milky semen, and a shrill whine filled Renata's ears as she wondered how many times they must have raped and beaten her, what kind of nightmare she and Benny's other girls went through in this room...

"Stupid cunt's been talking to the cops," Benny said. "Like they'd care what a junkie whore had to tell them." He leaned down and grasped a handful of her hair, lifting her head off the floor and sneering at her, "Like we wouldn't fucking find out."

The room began to spin and Renata's stomach lurched, her knees beginning to buckle; Marcus tightened his grip on her shoulder and added, "We've been lenient with her in the past, maybe too lenient given the frequency of her misbehavior, but this is a much more serious offense. Something more has to be done."

She barely heard him, her mind racing in a panic while her body's fight or flight responses struggled to take control. She had to get the fuck out of that house, she had to get Stacy out, call the police, _ something-_

"Renata."

The metallic voice sliced through her thoughts and she turned to meet those pitiless eyes. She shouldn't have set foot in that room, in the whole fucking house, in that damned godforsaken club. She should have taken one look into those eyes so long ago and run away as fast as she could. "I need you to settle this for me."

"How?" she asked hoarsely, terrified of the answer.

He reached down and toyed with the green scarf around her neck. "I can't afford a traitor in this line of work. If any of my associates betrays me, he - or she - becomes a threat, and has to be removed as soon as possible." He stared down at Stacy, then turned back to Renata. "Do you understand?"

She was going to be sick.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, a cold, clammy sensation overtaking her and freezing her in her urge to run even as her instincts burned to do so. No. No fucking way, he couldn't ask her, he had lost his fucking mind...but he kept playing with her scarf, slowly drawing it tighter as he said, "Trust is everything, Renata. People who can't be trusted have to be..." he cinched the scarf again and she felt the pressure on her windpipe, "dealt with."

Her insides had turned to serpents. Twisting, writhing serpents, sinking their fangs into her flesh. He wasn't_ asking_ her to do jack fucking shit. Her options were clear in the noose wrapped around her neck. She looked down at the broken woman on the floor, damaged beyond hope of recovery. She didn't deserve any of this, not one fucking thing that had happened to her...but the look in Marcus's eyes frightened her as nothing else had in her life. Stacy was dead no matter what, and if Renata didn't play along...

"I can't trust her anymore," he said softly. "Can I trust you?"

The whine in her head grew louder until she thought it would drive her insane. She tried to step outside of herself for as long as possible, to disconnect from Marcus and Stacy, from her own hands as they reached for the scarf. The scarf her grandmother had made with such love, in the color her grandfather loved best. She hoped to God they didn't know what she was doing as she took it off and wound it between her hands and_ oh God they wouldn't stop shaking. _ How surreal, how perverse that_ she_ should feel like a condemned prisoner ascending the gallows as she approached Stacy, her knees quaking so badly she could hardly stand. The heavy-lidded eyes fluttered and struggled to focus; there was no telling how high she was, but there was a flicker of recognition and she breathed, "Renata..."

_ Don't breathe...don't think..._

She closed the distance between them and raised the scarf and Stacy somehow understood her intent, moaning aloud and trying to move away but Renata moved faster, kneeling beside her on the floor and wrapping the scarf around her neck-

* * *

Renata leaped off the couch and staggered across the loft to the toilet, falling to her knees and heaving violently. The whiskey had numbed her throat but it still burned as it came back up, her body spasming and her head spinning until there was nothing left in her stomach. She slid to the floor and curled into a ball on the cold concrete, shaking uncontrollably and squeezing her eyes shut to try and stop the tears from falling. She had killed an innocent woman. She strangled her until her pitiful struggles to escape ceased and whatever light still existed in her eyes had gone out for good. She had tried to hide from it in booze and pills, but there was no such haven for her now, and she was faced with the worst of herself for the first time.

A sob broke free and then she couldn't hold back anymore, the tears coming so fast and hard she couldn't breathe. She could still see them gathered around her, watching her unwind the scarf from Stacy's neck, Benny with his gloating smirk back in place, Reg leering at her as he stepped forward to take the body from the room, and Marcus looking grimly satisfied as he offered her a hand to pull her to her feet. She hated all of them, _ hated _ them, but not as much as she hated herself. She killed Stacy to save her own life, and she had been convinced ever since that it wasn't worth saving. She was an addict, a thief, and a murderer, and she had involved herself with two men committed to destroying people like her.

The thought of them made her feel sick all over again. They didn't know what she was, what she'd done, and the only thing worse than the blood on her hands was the way she kept it secret from them. She didn't deserve them, and if they ever found out...what would they do? Would they cut her down like the other monsters they'd visited? They would have to do something, unable to tolerate a crime like hers, and she would deserve it, whatever it was. Their feelings for her would mean nothing when the time came for her to face her just reward, and that was another crime against her. She had allowed them to care for her, knowing what she was and who they were and how it should end. They would be no less affected when the end came.

Guilt tore at her, as it had torn at her ever since that night at Reg's house. Like a coward, she had buried it in drugs and alcohol, whatever would keep it at bay. She would have died that way if not for Connor and Murphy, who were only trying to help her and had no idea what they had forced her to face in their absence and without her usual crutch to lean on. She had been pretending all along that what she had done was necessary, only to save herself, no need for two people to die when one of them could live. Anything to make herself feel better and ease the burden she carried. But after all, maybe it was better to die with honor than to live with none, to stand for what was right no matter the cost. It was what the boys did.

She finally had the strength to pick herself off the floor, only to flop facedown on the bed. Her sobs had slowed but the tears still fell and she did nothing to stop them. She didn't know what they would do if they knew what she had done, but she meant something to them and they to her, and that in itself meant the world. There was nothing she could do to change that night with Marcus and Stacy, but the brothers' faith in her was like a candle in the darkness, unmerited as it was yet shining all the same. Maybe there was hope. Maybe she could become the person they believed she could be. She could spend the rest of her life making up for what she had done and maybe, just maybe, they would never have to know.

As for the guilt...well, she would just have to learn to carry that burden on her own.

** Leave me some love! See you soon! :)**


	26. Raw Wounds

** Hello. Remember how I said a few chapters ago that the hardest part to write so far was coming up? Well, it's here. We've reached the point where the timeline of the movie and of my story have intersected for real, which means I've had a time of it trying to balance what you already know and what's part of my own invention. Which means... *gulp* filler. I tried to avoid it, I really did, but to skip certain things left huge gaps that interrupted the flow too badly, so I did the best I could. I tip my hat in acknowledgement to xxInspireMexx for her words of wisdom. If this chapter sucks, it's not her fault.**

** On with the show!**

It was another mission accomplished, but no one was in any mood to celebrate. Connor, Murphy and Rocco hurried into Rocco's mother's immaculate kitchen, bloody, on-edge, and at each others' throats.

"Who the fuck was he, Rocco?" Connor demanded again. "I know ye fuckin know, so don't even start."

"Fuck you, I told you I never saw him before!" Rocco shot back.

"Yeah, well, he sure as fuck knew _y__ou!" _Murphy interjected.

"Fuck you!" Rocco yelled. "Fuck you both!"

His next words were all but lost as the brothers began shouting at the same time and he raised his voice with theirs, pain, fear and adrenaline setting tempers on hair triggers. They threw insults and accusations back and forth like hand grenades, paying no mind to their wounds in the heat of confrontation, until Rocco staggered, clutching his bleeding hand and looking pale.

Connor's anger evaporated as he took stock of his injured friend and said, "Sit down, Roc. We gotta get ye fixed up."

Rocco let out a short laugh that held no humor. They had discussed it on the drive over and decided there was no way they could go to a hospital, where every gunshot wound was reported, and that left their "fixing" options very limited indeed. He drew out a chair from the table and sat while Connor set a clothes iron on the stove and turned on the burner.

They all stood staring at it for a moment, the flame of the burner glowing beneath the steel pad of the iron, mesmerizing with the threat of its purpose, then Connor tore himself away and set the others to action as well. "Right, Murph, ye best find gauze or shit we can use for bandages, an' some aspirin."

"Check the upstairs bathroom," Rocco suggested. "If it's not in the medicine cabinet, try the linen closet on the shelf above the towels."

Murphy nodded and set off, and Connor sat at the table with Rocco, taking care to block his view of the iron on the stove. Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps. "Gimme yer hand."

Rocco complied, and he unwound the bloody cloth, carefully peeling it away from the stump of the missing finger. "Christ, it's bleedin like fuckin hell," he said.

Rocco groaned. "Just fuckin great. I survive a shootout only to die from losing a fuckin finger."

"Ye're not dyin, Roc. Keep it elevated for now." He fell silent, but the quiet hiss of the gas burner filled the kitchen ominously, and to distract himself from it as well as Rocco he kept talking. "We've had it pretty fuckin easy so far, we mighta expected shit ta go sour before long."

"Sour," Rocco repeated, as though it wasn't the word he would have chosen. "Understatement of the fuckin century." His face turned earnest through the pain and dread and he added, "Connor, I swear on my mother's life, I have no idea who that fucker was."

"Aye, Roc, I believe ye. I'm sorry I blamed ye at first."

"I know _ everyone_ that works for Pappa Joe!"

"I know ye do. That's why I'm worried."

Murphy returned, laden with what he had scavenged. "Gauze, medical tape, alcohol, aspirin," he recited, spreading it out on the counter and leaving the table clear, "an' I found some ointment, d'ye think that'll help?"

"It's worth a shot," Connor replied. "What was it Ma used when ye burned yer hand on the stove?"

"Cold water an' yellow mustard."

"Ah." He indicated the half-empty tube of triple-antibiotic ointment Murphy had brought down. "We prob'ly oughta stick with this."

By unspoken agreement Rocco would go first, his hand bleeding the worst. They waited nervously until the iron was hot, then Connor reached for the alcohol. "This'll sting," he warned Rocco.

"What kind of doctor are you?" Rocco grumbled, looking bad-tempered. "You're not supposed to fuckin _tell _me."

"D'ye want me ta lie to ye?"

"Fuckin A right I do!"

"All right, then. This won't hurt a bit." He poured the alcohol over the stump and Rocco swore explosively. "_Son of a bitch!_ You lying, shit-eating, cocksucking motherf—"

"Murph, get the iron."

Murphy took a deep breath as he took it off the stove and returned to the table. "Ye'll have ta hold him steady," he told Connor.

"Oh, fuck," Rocco groaned, bad temper shifting back to fear.

"It's all right, Roc," Connor assured him. "Just try an' stay calm, the worst is almost over."

"'Almost' don't fuckin count."

Connor twisted a dish towel between his hands and stood behind Rocco's chair. "Bite down," he said. "If ye gotta scream, go ahead."

"You think it'll be that bad?"

"Better safe than sorry. Can't be much worse than gettin shot in the first fuckin place."

Murphy glanced at his brother and wondered whether he believed it himself or if he was just trying to reassure their friend. Connor caught his eye and nodded slightly, holding tightly to Rocco as Rocco bit down on the towel, still looking scared despite everything. Murphy's hands were shaking, but he took another breath and steeled himself. "Just hang in there, Roc," he said, and he pressed the hot iron to Rocco's hand.

There was an awful sizzling noise and a smell of burning flesh that made him want to be sick, but the worst part was the screams. Muffled as they were through the dish towel, their sound filled the kitchen with agony that couldn't be borne in silence. For all that it couldn't be helped, Murphy felt a stab of guilt at further hurting his friend and he fought against the urge to take the iron away as Connor struggled to hold Rocco still, doing his best to ignore the cries of pain in his ears. _Just a little longer...a little fucking longer..._

At long last, he removed the iron and moved away, setting it back on the stove and turning to the supplies he'd brought down, anything to keep from looking at Rocco's hand. "Ye did fine, Roc," he heard Connor say. "The worst is over." Rocco mumbled something in response, then Connor added, "Murph, bring cold water."

He nodded wordlessly and rummaged through the cabinets, finally laying hands on a large pitcher. Filling it with cool tap water, he brought it to the table and Connor rinsed the hand. "Ye did fine as well," he told his twin. "This oughta do okay."

Murphy nodded again and finally looked at Rocco's hand. The stump where the little finger had been was no longer bleeding, but the exposed tissue had been seared like a steak on a grill, the surrounding skin red and inflamed and blisters already forming where the iron had touched, and it was with a ferocious effort that he managed not to throw up.

"Get him some aspirin," Connor instructed, gingerly applying antibiotic ointment before wrapping the hand in clean gauze.

"And a fuckin beer," Rocco added, sounding like he had never needed one more.

"Not yet, we still gotta get finished here." He taped the gauze in place while Murphy provided the aspirin and a glass of water, then he said, "C'mon, Murph, ye're next."

Murphy froze in place, feeling cold sweat across his skin and the first real touch of panic since that old man started shooting. "Get the fuck outta here," he replied, "ye're in a lot worse shape than I am—"

"It's not gonna get any easier the longer ye put it off," Connor told him firmly. "Might as well get it over with, aye?" Their eyes met, and Connor gave him the same look they'd been giving each other their whole lives. _It's okay. I've got you._

Fear stalled but by no means diminished, Murphy nodded.

Again that long wait for the iron to heat, and Connor unwrapped the injured arm and tore the sleeve open to get a better look. "Barely even nicked ye," he said. "Might as well put a Band-Aid on it an' call it a fuckin day."

"Ye've lost yer fuckin mind," Murphy argued, turning his arm so he could see. "There's a whole fuckin chunk a meat blown away!" The wound was fairly shallow, technically just a graze, but while the bullet hadn't left entry and exit wounds, it had carved quite a track in his arm, which was bad enough in Murphy's opinion.

"Hardly worth the trouble, fuckin with a scratch like that," Connor continued. "C'mon, now, are ye Macho Murph, or a fuckin pussy?"

Oh, so that was his angle, using the nickname that had been his since childhood after he took on the school bully; he went home with a black eye and detention, but sent the bigger kid packing with a broken nose. He took the beating and the punishment on the chin, tough through one and stoic through the other, and he'd carried the legacy ever since. Connor couldn't have issued a better challenge.

He stretched out on the table, arm extended, and Rocco rose from the chair to help hold him down. He offered the dish towel and Murphy got it between his teeth; Rocco held the ends with his good hand and braced his arm on Murphy's back to keep him pinned, while Murphy clutched at the edge of the table. This was going to hurt like a motherfucker...

Connor approached the table and doused Murphy's arm with the alcohol. Murph flinched and groaned into the dish towel and Connor ruffled his hair encouragingly. "Ye got this, tough guy."

Murphy released the edge of the table long enough to give him the finger.

It was one thing to try and keep Murphy together, and another to master himself as he took the iron from the stove and returned to Murphy, willing himself not to lose his nerve. This was hands-down the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, with Rocco's screams fresh in his ears and the iron heavy and red-hot in his hand. This was Murph, his twin, and it took all he had not to throw the iron away in horror at the thought of what he was about to do...but the blood seeping from the bullet wound hardened his resolve and he steadied his grip. Murph needed him, and no matter what it cost, he had to be there for him.

He took Murphy's arm, holding tight. "_I've got you, brother_," he murmured in Gaelic, and he raised the iron.

The shock of the hot metal against his skin suspended the pain for a moment, but not nearly long enough. Nerve endings already reeling from the bullet and the alcohol shrieked in protest and brought back panic in full force. Fuck stoic. Murphy screamed into the gag and jerked and thrashed against the hands holding him in place, anything to get free and the fuck away from that iron. Connor tightened his grip in an effort to reassure him, but it was no help, just searing, excruciating torture blotting out the rest of reality and he prayed to God to just pass out, if it would get him off the hook any faster...

He didn't even notice when Connor removed the iron, the heat was still burning through every layer of skin. It was only when he felt Rocco's weight vanish that he realized it was over and he sagged with relief, though his arm still felt like he'd set fire to it with a blow torch. He was dimly aware of Connor still moving around him, rinsing his arm to cool the skin and gently applying the antibiotic. The pain of the touch, soft as it was, was nowhere near as bad as the iron but still enough to make him cringe and moan aloud.

"Sorry, Murph," Connor said, sounding contrite but determined. "Just hold still, I'm almost finished."

He took a deep breath and tried not to move while Connor dressed his arm, forehead pressed against the tabletop and thinking Rocco had a point: He could _really_ use a drink.

"Right, then, ye're all set," Connor announced, helping him off the table and handing him some aspirin. "One left, an' we're in the clear."

Murphy nodded, seeing the iron already back on the stove and feeling his stomach clench. His arm seared even after Connor had treated it, and Connor was next for that pain...he glanced at his twin and saw the calm exterior begin to slip now that everyone else was out of trouble, that iron strength of will slowly giving way to fear of pain.

He was never good with words, so there was nothing he could say that would be any comfort. There was little point in telling him it wasn't that bad, not when he'd fought tooth and nail and screamed his fucking head off at the first touch of the iron. It wasn't going to be over quickly, either; seconds lasted for hours in that pain, and it didn't fade away afterwards. All he could do was rest his hand on his brother's shoulder as they waited and let him know he was there for him.

"Almost there," Rocco told them, glancing at the iron.

"Aye," Connor replied. He climbed onto the table, stretching out his injured leg with a grimace, and borrowed Murphy's knife to slice through his jeans and expose the wound in his thigh. "I think I've got ye beat, Murph," he boasted halfheartedly. "That's gotta be the worst fuckin thing I've ever seen in my life, compared ta yers."

Murphy examined the wound, feeling anxious. There were several major arteries in the thigh and it seemed a miracle the bullet hadn't struck one; Connor would have already bled to death if it had. Not to say it wasn't serious enough as it was—the leg was bleeding nearly as bad as Rocco's hand, and there was no exit wound.

"The fuckin bullet's still in there," he said.

"Aye," Connor said, the calm slipping a little more. "I figured as much."

"What the fuck?" Rocco said, coming closer to see for himself. "What do we do, do we take it out or something?"

"No," Connor told him decisively. "Ye're not stickin shit in my fuckin leg ta try an' dig the fucker out. Just leave it."

"Are ye sure?" Murphy asked.

"For Christ's fuckin sake, Murph, I'm sure! Gimme the alcohol!" He took the bottle from Murphy and splashed his leg, then nearly dropped it, his face contorting with pain.

Murphy rushed to take the bottle and Connor clutched at his hand, cursing in Gaelic through gritted teeth. "Are ye okay?"

Connor took several deep breaths, waiting for the sting to abate, then replied, "If it burns, it's workin." He forced a wry smile. "All things considered, that's a bit of a relief, innit?"

Murphy couldn't find it in himself to laugh.

Connor picked up the dish towel, twisting it between his hands again. "Roc," he said, sounding nervous, "ye think ye can handle the iron?"

"Fuck that, I can do it—" Murphy insisted.

"Can ye, Roc?" Connor interrupted.

Rocco looked between them, then nodded. "Yeah, I can do it."

"Good." Connor handed the towel to Murphy, the fear in his eyes more pronounced than ever. "Murph? Would ye do the honors?"

Maybe he had the right idea... Knowing what to expect on the receiving end, Murphy was reluctant to inflict it on his brother and probably couldn't have brought himself to do it after all. And Connor wasn't hiding anything right now. He needed the comfort of his twin if he was going to get through this.

Rocco got the iron and Murphy took the towel, holding Connor back against his chest and both of them getting the gag in place. Rocco looked from one to the other and Murphy could feel Connor shaking, knowing that his courage had lasted as long as it took to get his brother and his friend out of danger; he was there when they needed him, and it was Murphy's turn to do the same. He held him tighter, closed his eyes as he watched Rocco raise the iron, and started to pray. _Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name_...

He knew the exact moment the iron touched Connor's leg, the shaking replaced by agonized tension as he somehow managed to stay still, an inhuman groan sounding through the gag, and Murphy felt the pain as if it was his own, burning, scorching, savaging until nothing else existed anymore. _Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven..._

Connor lifted his arm, reaching back for Murphy and crying out louder, and Murphy knew the gesture for what it was, holding even tighter and lending his strength. _I'm right here, Connor_. "Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us..."

The shaking had returned, in a shuddering, jarring way that told him Connor was sobbing with pain, and he felt the sting of tears at the back of his own eyes, wanting— no, _needing_—Rocco to back off and helpless to do anything about it. "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil—" The words caught on the lump in his throat but he carried on, "for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever."

Connor went limp and Murphy opened his eyes to see Rocco take the iron away and put it aside. He didn't let go, though, holding onto Connor and reassuring himself they were both all right as his tears began to fall.

_Amen_.

* * *

They sat around the table sometime later, having cleaned up the blood and restored the kitchen to rights. Pain was still a haze in the foreground, so they were too dazed to be shocked to turn on the news and see their acquaintance Agent Smecker was on the hunt for them.

Rocco stared at the TV screen as though still seeing the agent there. "What the fuck do we do now?" he asked. "It's great you wanna be noble and leave him alone, but if he's as fuckin smart as you say he is..."

"It's just a matter a time," Murphy agreed. "He figured out the shit with Checkov in a few hours."

"Then we're fucked. It's over."

"The fuck it is," Connor told him. "It's never over. We keep goin no matter what."

"You got a plan?"

"We gotta do Pappa Joe. He's fuckin desperate ta get rid of ye, or he wouldn't be sendin these motherfuckers after ye—"

"You still don't fuckin _know_ that guy was out for me—"

"Think about it, Roc," Murphy reasoned. "Yakavetta set ye up ta get yerself killed, it's not a stretch ta think he put a hit on ye."

Rocco heaved a sigh. "Guess not."

"He's gotta be pretty fuckin scared of ye ta do that, if that cheers ye up."

"Y'know..." Rocco pondered it for a moment, "it kinda does..."

"We'll have ta clear outta town after this," Connor informed them.

"Fine. Where are we headed?"

"Might be best ta start movin south—"

"Wait," Murphy broke in, "what about Renata?"

"Fuckin hell, I'd forgot! Roc, gimme the phone!"

* * *

Renata sat frozen on the couch, the TV remote in hand and her eyes fixed on the screen. A multiple homicide in a usually quiet neighborhood...that part didn't surprise her. In fact, she had turned on the news expecting to see something like it. No, it was word of a standoff in the street and an FBI investigation that left her shell-shocked.

What the fuck had they gotten themselves into?

The phone rang, startling her out of her trance. She reached for the handset and answered it. "Hello?"

"Renata." It was Connor.

"Jesus Christ," she sighed, then burst out, "What the fuck is going on? A shootout in the fucking suburbs, now the goddamn FBI is getting involved—"

"Ye watched the news?"

"Well, how the fuck else was I supposed to get any word?" she stormed. "I haven't heard shit all day—"

"Aye, I know, things got outta hand—"

"Out of hand? It's the fucking _FBI_, Connor!"

"Aye. We know the guy."

For a moment she was struck dumb. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"I'm just sayin we know what ta expect," he explained.

"Great. I'm glad _someone_ does."

"Look, we're fuckin sorry, all right? It's not like any of us planned any a this shit, ye know."

She could picture him on the other end of the line, exasperated and exhausted, standing his ground while trying to settle her agitation. It had been a hell of a day for all of them, and he didn't deserve her bitching at him no matter how worried she was. "Are you okay?" she asked, softening her tone.

"We made it out. But Renata, this shit with Rocco's boss is gettin serious, an' we can't leave it unfinished. He sent someone ta kill him today, an' he almost did the job."

"Holy shit..."

"Hey, 'almost' doesn't fuckin count."

She sighed, rubbing her eyes wearily. "What happens now?"

"We're at Roc's mother's, so we're gonna lay low here for tonight. We gotta end this tomorrow."

"And what about the FBI?"

There was a pause, then he said, "We're not gonna be able ta stay in Boston. We gotta do this an' head out."

She shook her head at the thought. "Fugitives..."

"Aye. An' ye can stay or come with us, but either way, it's yer call."

"You think Rocco would be okay with that?"

"He'll live. We're not forcin ye ta stay behind."

"Do you actually think I would?"

"No, but I want ye ta really think about it before there's no chance ta change yer mind. Livin on the run, always lookin over yer shoulder, unable ta risk settlin down and gettin too comfortable..."

"Shit, Connor, it's not like that's a foreign concept."

"It's gonna be dangerous."

"It's already dangerous and I'm here anyway."

"Ye sure?"

"Damn straight."

"Right then." He still sounded exhausted, but she could hear the hint of a smile in his voice. "We should be back late tomorrow. Be ready ta leave when we get there."

"Okay. And for fuck's sake, be careful. Holy mission or not, none of you are fucking bulletproof."

He chuckled. "Right enough. We learned that the hard way today."

"You did _what?"_

"It's fine, I promise. Will ye be all right for another day?"

"I'm not the one you need to worry about, Connor."

"Aye, an' I'll worry anyway."

She sighed. "It's just one more day. You never know, I might find Jesus while waiting for you two to come back."

"Lemme know when ye do, an' we'll get a family pew at church."

Her throat tightened with tears she refused to shed over the phone. "I'm family?"

"Sure ye are. Are ye fuckin insane?"

"I think I would have to be."

"Oh, aye, ta be sure. Look after yerself til we get back."

"Same to you."

There was another pause, then, "Love ye, Renata." And he hung up.

She sat listening to the dial tone for a moment, torn between surprise and delight, joy and pain, hesitating before whispering, "I love you too..." She kept the phone to her ear, waiting only another moment before continuing as though he was still listening with the freedom of knowing he couldn't hear her. "Jesus Christ, I love you both so much. And you'd better not get yourselves killed, because I'll go fucking crazy to lose either of you now. I might—" her breath caught in her chest but she couldn't stop now that she had started. "I might lose you anyway if you ever find out...I killed someone to save my own ass. _Killed_ someone, someone who didn't deserve any of the shit that happened to her. That's why I can't be alone, because I'm a worthless piece of shit that can't live with myself. You couldn't love me if you knew, and I can't tell you because I can't live without you."

The dial tone cut off, replaced by a disconnected signal, and she hung up the phone.

* * *

She lay awake later, sleepless in a bed that felt too large without her companions. She had devised a sort of game, listening to the silence until Marcus's voice and Stacy's struggles grew too loud in her memory, then repeating Connor's last words on the phone to herself as a balm for the wound, watching the door and waiting for his and Murphy's footsteps out in the hallway while her memories pushed to the surface again.

Who the fuck did she think she was, anyway? She had no place here. She was terrified of being abandoned but maybe she had earned it all along. She was a slut in high school, going from one guy to the next as they ditched her one by one. She was a sloppy drunk and arrested as such, and Kevin Reid left her to fend for herself in a strange city. She walked out on her mother just like her two-timing father and had been on her own ever since. She lost everything she ever cared about, and now the worst thing she had ever done would one day cost her the best thing that had ever happened to her.

_You're not worth shit, Renata Malone. It took you twenty-five years to figure it out when everyone else knew it all along, and_ they'll _find out in time. They'll leave you like all the others, just as you deserve._

She closed her eyes and listened to the thoughts looping in her mind, her limbs weighted down and her heart sinking like a stone into a dark well of shame and despair. She wanted them with her, needing to touch them and to know they were beside her for at least a little longer, but they were off on their next mission of retribution, and they were already injured...they could die if this went bad, like they nearly did that afternoon...

A chill crept over her and she curled into a ball amid the rumpled bedding, fighting back the fear and the dread and following an impulse that, scorned and unheeded as it was for herself, was the most urgent in her head for the sake of the men she cared for.

_I've got no right to ask You for anything. I know that better than anyone, and I wouldn't blame You if You told me to go to hell. But...God_, please _keep them safe. If You've never listened to me before—if You won't do this for me, then do it for them. Don't let anything happen to them_.

There was silence in the apartment. No footsteps outside, no memories within. Just silence.

** Be honest...did I screw up? I would hate to think I let my loyal readers down and put new ones off. If I'm going off track, I can't get back on if I'm unaware. I hope you enjoyed it, anyway.**

** And before you say anything...the iron scene is edited with Murphy first, then Rocco. We know this. BUT if you pay attention to the bandages, Rocco is wearing a fresh one on his hand when Murphy is getting the iron, and Murphy still has the same bloody wrapping when they're taking care of Rocco's hand. It moved better in the chapter if I exploited that little break in continuity. And I have no idea how Murphy got his nickname, but I couldn't not use it somewhere.**

** Thanks!**


	27. Adler and the Yard

**Merry Christmas, dear readers! Or maybe you don't celebrate Christmas, but whatever it is you have to look forward to this time of year, I hope it's special and you remember it for years to come. :)**

**I had to apply a little more pressure to get this done in time, but my gift to you is an update. And it's a moment I know a few of you have been looking forward to for awhile now... Enjoy!**

If there ever was a time Paul Smecker regretted becoming a man of the law, it was now. It could have been a mob war. It could have been a pistol-packing dumbass playing crime fighter. He would have collared someone without blinking if that had been the case. But no. His rampant vigilantes had to be none other than Connor and Murphy MacManus.

He sat before his computer in his hotel room, having matched the print from the finger at the last crime scene and stumbled upon David Della Rocco's arrest record. Trifling as the coincidence was, once the pieces began to fall into place they snowballed into an avalanche. It all made sense now, yet threw him into another tailspin. Those polite young men who charmed the entire precinct and were lauded as heroes after their brush with the mafia...the serial killers he'd been hunting so relentlessly?

He got to his feet and picked up the glass of wine standing at attention nearby, tilting it back and draining it in a few gulps. It went to his head immediately but his mind felt too overloaded for it to make any difference. Bach's Violin Concerto in E Major floated in the background but he was hardly in a mood to appreciate the music. What stood before him was assuredly the biggest dilemma of his career—no, strike that, his life.

All he wanted was to see evil men get what they deserved. His entire moral code revolved around justice. Now that someone had taken it upon themselves to defend the morals he stood for, he was loath to put a stop to it, had in fact been dreading the moment the net closed over his quarry for some time. Now that he had identified his suspects, everything was much worse. The MacManus brothers were good men doing something extraordinary. They were the ideal of what he longed for himself when he took up law enforcement. It was his job to stop them, but taking them off the streets was a betrayal of everything he believed in.

He thought back to the day Douglas Ledford was released from federal custody; he could still see that arrogant smile and the triumph in those dark eyes, and even after all these years the impulse to draw his weapon and shoot the man down was as urgent as if they stood face to face once more. How often had he curbed that impulse to forego duty, ignore the risk, and send those he pursued on their way to Hell? He had _envied_ his vigilantes! Finally, someone was doing what he wanted to do and standing up for the justice he believed in. Someone _needed_ to stand up. If it was up to him...

He went to the bar for more wine, but the bottle was empty. Fan-fucking-tastic. He got his coat and stormed from the room, slamming the door on his way out. There had to be a place to get a decent drink around here, and he wasn't in a mood to think about this shit while sober.

* * *

He could never say for sure afterwards, but maybe God had been steering things all along...

All right, maybe he wasn't willing to go that far just yet, but he was open to the possibility after the way the morning went. His heart-to-heart with the priest about man and God, law and ideals—he was drunk for sure if he was going to the clergy for advice— had only served to tip him farther toward the direction he'd been leaning. But when the pay phone came through on his pager and he returned the call to hear Connor MacManus on the other end? That seemed the work of Divine Providence, indeed.

The work of the Almighty or not, their conversation was necessarily brief and to-the-point. Connor and his brother would go along with Rocco, that friend of theirs with mob connections—the fact that it had taken him so long to make _that_ connection was more irritating the longer he thought about it—to eliminate another kingpin on the radar and Smecker himself would...well, he wasn't quite sure of that just yet. Deciding to aid them was one thing, but they had managed quite well without him so far. It was merely a question of where to apply his skills for the greatest benefit.

He got a cab, giving instructions to just drive, and sat in silence trying to think. It was hard to focus through the massive headache bashing away at his brain; maybe he'd gone a tad overboard with that bender, no matter what had come of it. He persevered, marshaling his intellect and organizing his thoughts...

He paused, staring out the window. There was a woman walking out of a liquor store on the corner ahead, and she looked familiar...with an acuity that took him by surprise given his condition, he recognized her as Renata Malone, the stripper with the drunk and disorderly charge. On the heels of recognition was the recollection of female DNA left at two of the crime scenes, and a cursory glance around the neighborhood told him he was only a few blocks from the MacManuses building.

He had serious doubts any of this shit was a coincidence.

"Stop," he told the cabbie. He paid his fare and got out of the car, moving quickly to catch up with the woman. "Renata Malone," he called out.

She stopped and hesitated before turning, her eyes falling on him. "Yeah?"

"I'm Paul Smecker," he said, "with the FBI's Organized Crime Task Force."

She was on guard in an instant, her stance alert and her eyes suspicious. "Okay..."

He handed her his card with a word of apology. "Sorry, I don't have my badge on me—"

"No, I saw you on the news," she informed him, looking at the card with, if possible, even more suspicion.

He nodded politely, then continued. "I want to talk to you about the MacManus brothers."

Renata stiffened. It was strange enough that he knew her, but how the fuck did he know she had anything to do with Connor and Murphy?

He read her dumbfounded expression and added, "It's best if we move this discussion off the street. Given the circumstances, I'm sure you won't object."

Object? She could come up with a few reasons to do so. He tried to motion her along but she stood firm. "What exactly do we need to talk about? What makes you think I know anything about those guys?"

"I understand you're confused," he said, "but let's not play games. You worked at the Sin Bin, and you left DNA evidence at two crime scenes we can tie the MacManuses to."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"I wasn't aware that was necessary."

"The fuck it's not. So what if I worked there? So what if you can prove I was at my boss's house once? What does that have to do with these guys you _think_ might have been there too?"

"We both know better than to just think, Miss Malone," Smecker told her, beginning to lose patience. "It's only a matter of time before someone _can_ prove a connection."

"And in the meantime, you're just fishing," she shot back. "You're here thinking you can get more on them instead of this circumstantial shit?"

"No, I—"

"Fuck you and fuck the FBI. I'm not telling you a goddamned thing, so just go ahead and stick me with obstruction of justice, or whatever the fuck it is you cocksuckers do when nobody plays along with your bullshit games."

Smecker paused, peeved at her attitude but impressed nonetheless. This foul-mouthed spitfire was loyal, and no two opinions about it. Already familiar with the loyalty the brothers had inspired in their friends and neighbors dealing with the Checkov incident, he didn't have to wonder at her display, though it complicated an already delicate situation when time was running short. "I'm not here to stick anyone with anything," he assured her. "Unlikely as it must seem, I'm trying to prevent such a thing from happening. But we can't talk here, so I need you to trust me."

_Trust me._ Those were Connor's words to her in the car only two nights before... She had heard nothing from him or Murphy all day, and she was going out of her mind worrying about them. Her bag was packed and ready for their return but her anxiety wouldn't let her sit still, and she had decided to run out for cigarettes and candy to give herself something to do. Now, however, she wished she had stayed at home, if something to do led to being cornered by the feds.

Smecker sensed her unease and adopted his most sympathetic, persuasive manner. "If it makes you feel any better, I spoke with them earlier and they're both fine. They have one last job to do in Boston, then they're heading to New York. Did you know that?"

She nodded. "I didn't know where, but I knew we were leaving."

He noted the "we" with some bemusement. She was involved with the MacManuses, no more doubt about that. Greenly had been the only one to insist there was a woman in the mix, and it was vexing to realize the air head rookie had gotten two things right in one day. "Can we talk?" he asked again.

Renata surveyed him, trying to decide what to do. She distrusted suits in general and she was wary of this one in particular, but Connor and Murphy knew him and they didn't sound _too_ worried...and if he had already talked to them... She shrugged. "Why not?"

Without another word, Smecker turned and led the way up the street to the apartment. She followed close behind him, watching him carefully as they entered the building and made for the elevator. He still didn't say a word as he pressed the button for the fifth floor and she didn't take her eyes off him for an instant, wondering if she had made the right decision.

He continued to lead the way, walking straight to the apartment with no need for guidance. Not much had changed from the last time he'd seen it after the Russians had stormed the place, apart from three things: the door was back on its hinges, a new toilet had been installed, and the two beds had been pushed together into one.

Well. That confirmed his suspicions about Miss Renata and her involvement with the brothers.

He took a seat at the table and Renata claimed the couch across from him, setting the plastic bag from the store on the floor in front of her. "What do you want to talk about?" she asked.

"Might I have a water?" he requested, ignoring her question.

She narrowed her eyes at him, then got to her feet again in search of a clean glass. After a few minutes of rummaging noisily through the cabinets, she managed to locate one, fill it with tap water, and bring it to Smecker. No ice, and the water itself had a queer metallic taste, but he accepted what hospitality she afforded him under the circumstances without comment. She sat back down and he said, "First of all, I'm not here to bring anyone in. I'm just trying to help."

"How?" she asked. "Let them know how your case against them stands and tell them to get a fucking good lawyer?"

"You don't trust me."

"Would _you?_"

"_They_ do."

"Why?"

"You think they're mistaken?"

"Would you give me a straight answer, for fuck's sake?"

He fixed her with the kind of stare that usually sent seasoned lawmen running for cover and felt a touch of respect when she didn't back down. "Because as of this morning," he replied, "I decided fuck the FBI, I stand for true justice. The kind your young men seem to be fond of lately."

Renata paused as his words sank in, suddenly feeling like the smart-mouthed bitch Rocco had once called her. "So, you're really trying to _help..._"

He nodded.

"And they're _really_ okay?"

"They are," he assured her.

She heaved a sigh, sinking back into the couch and feeling more inclined to be helpful in her sense of relief. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Nothing pressing. I ran into you by chance and wanted to take the opportunity to clear a few things up about those scenes you were at. If you could answer truthfully, starting with the club, just tell me what you can. It's not official anymore, so you don't have to answer for anything."

"Hm. My lucky day." She fished a pack of cigarettes out of the plastic bag and took one out. "Do you mind?" He shook his head and she lit up, pausing to get in a few drags before she began. "They were already done at the club by the time we crossed paths. They were there for some mobster who tried to get Rocco killed, and they did two others while they were there."

"Why?" Smecker asked, already aware of the answer.

"Because they were evil men. One of them sold drugs outside of the club, and the other one was a pimp. He had a deal with the owner to let his girls dance where he could keep track of them rather than let them run the streets."

"Who is the owner?"

"Some guy named Marcus. I think his last name was Greene."

"Fine. Keep going."

"I was heading in the back door as they were coming out and we met in the hallway. The rest is history."

"You mean they just let you into the circle? Some woman they found at a strip club?"

She returned his earlier stare with interest, adding a little of her own stony disdain. "Whatever you're thinking, that's not it. I'm not a hooker and they didn't pick me up as one. I was in bad shape and they drove me to the hospital." Murphy's words to her that night floated through her brain and she added, "They were being good Samaritans."

With what he knew of the brothers' characters, Smecker could envision it with no trouble. "Fair enough. What about Reggie McDowell?"

Renata hesitated, wondering how much she dared to tell. Smecker might not be working for the FBI, but she had no idea how much he might relay back to Connor and Murphy. She couldn't say anything that might lead to that night with Stacy. "Benny, the pimp that got killed, he kept girls there when they got out of line. We wouldn't see them in the club for a few days, and when they came back..." She struggled with herself before continuing, seeing bruises, track marks, and a brutal sense of brokenness in the women in her memory. "You have no idea what happened in that place."

Smecker didn't reply, seeing the distress she was trying to keep hidden. He didn't know the way she knew, but he knew all he wanted to. Forensics had processed the empty bedroom with a fine-toothed comb, getting trace evidence from floor to ceiling. Blood, semen, hair, sweat, saliva, and God knew what else; you couldn't step inside the door without walking on someone. "And McDowell himself? What about him?"

"The worst one in there apart from Marcus. He oversaw the drug and weapons trade inside the club and he sure as fuck volunteered his services whenever Benny needed one of his whores straightened out."

"Who killed him?"

"I did."

Damn it, Greenly was right again. There might be a promotion heading his way after all if he kept it up. "That was a pretty gruesome job, Miss Malone."

"The motherfucker deserved it."

"But why wait so long before you got him?"

"I made them promise," she said. "I needed a few days to get back on my feet, and I wanted to be there to see him die."

"Settling an old score?"

She flicked ash off the end of her cigarette and said without antagonism, "You don't know shit."

"True enough," he replied evenly. "I'm just trying to be sure I understand everything."

"With all due respect, sometimes you don't need to." She sat smoking for a few minutes, then asked again, "Are you _sure_ they're all right?"

"I'm very sure. They know how to handle themselves well enough."

She nodded her agreement. "They're good men. Better than most."

It was his turn to nod. "We could use more like them in this world."

She shook her head. "No luck there, Agent Smecker. There will never be men like them again."

He had nothing to say to that, so he rose to his feet and laid a compassionate hand on her shoulder. "Try not to worry too much," he told her. "Those young men have a way of coming out ahead."

She nodded again, working on her cigarette.

"If you need anything, give me a call." He turned to leave then paused, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. "I know it's not my business," he began.

"Then it's best to stay out of it," she replied without looking up.

"But you're still here," he continued, "after McDowell was out of the picture. You were willing to go to jail rather than tell me anything about them. Might I ask why?"

"Which one am I fucking, you mean?" she asked. "I would have thought that would answer any questions." She pointed to the bed across the room.

"I meant nothing of the sort," he said. "We all have our, shall we call them, tastes. I meant, why so loyal when you've hardly known them?"

"You decided this morning to throw away a career with the FBI," she told him. "Might I ask why?"

He smiled. He couldn't help it. "Because I believe in what they're doing."

"There you go." She took another drag and exhaled with a deep sigh. "Have a good day, Agent."

"You as well."

It occurred to him as he was leaving the building that despite being quite rough around the edges, Malone was a bit remarkable in her own right. She would have to be, based on what he knew of her and in order to keep up with the MacManuses.

It was a short walk back to the corner store and there was a pay phone outside. He dialed the precinct that had become his second home, and after a quick exchange with the dispatcher, he was on the line with Duffy. "Duffy speaking."

"It's Smecker," he said without preamble. "Has anything new come in?"

"Nothing."

"Good. Have you had any luck on Reggie McDowell?"

"A few traffic violations and some arrests from twenty to thirty years ago, but nothing recent."

"Well, keep digging." He was onto something big, he could feel it; he was too experienced not to trust his instincts. He replayed his conversation with Malone and added, "Take a break and see what you can find on the owner, a guy named Marcus Greene. Keep in mind that it might be an alias. And I need to know who is on Joe Yakavetta's payroll. In particular, I need someone I can talk to."

"I'm on it. What's all this for?"

"I'm just following a hunch. I'll be there shortly." He hung up the phone, then called a cab. _The game's afoot_, he told himself with a grim smile._ Bring your revolver, my dear Watson._

* * *

"Turns out we've raided the Sin Bin three times since it opened in '91," Duffy said once Smecker reached the precinct. "Drugs, guns, prostitution, the usual shit. Individual arrests were made, but nothing came against anyone above a certain point on the company ladder."

"Naturally," Smecker replied dryly. "What else?"

Duffy flipped through the file. He'd done well, considering that Smecker had only given him a twenty minute headstart between his phone call and his arrival. "Reggie McDowell...half a dozen speeding tickets, three drug charges, and three years served out of a five-year assault sentence."

"When did he get out?"

"Late '90. He started working at the Sin Bin eight months later."

"Anything after that?"

"Not a fucking thing. As soon as he was in at the club, he had whatever immunity the owner could buy."

"And what about the owner himself?"

"The building was sold to one Marcus Greene around the time McDowell was released, but I couldn't get anything older than that on him. There's no names in our system, or anywhere else as far as I can tell. He just appeared out of nowhere. Until the club opened, Marcus Greene didn't exist."

Smecker frowned and took the file. He brushed past McDowell's police record and reports on the raids, then halted at photos of the most recent bust. Duffy had even printed off archived newspapers in his search, and one headline read plainly, "Seven Arrested In Night Club Bust." The photograph beneath showed two men in handcuffs being led to a patrol car. The front of the club was visible in the background, and a man in a suit stood under the awning over the sidewalk. The caption below read _Owner Marcus Greene watches as Boston police conduct Monday night's raid_, but Smecker had no eyes for it, riveted to the man in the picture. A man that bore a name with no record, who had no past to speak of, who simply appeared out of the blue...or rose again out of the shadows. The face had changed since the days he knew it, but know it he did.

Marcus Greene was Douglas Ledford.

"Sir?"

Smecker came out of his trance with considerable effort and turned to Duffy. "Sorry," he muttered, closing the file and hiding Ledford's face from view again. "What did you say?"

"I've also got that Yakavetta information," Duffy repeated, handing him a list. Smecker took it and scanned it, his mind still reeling in shock. Doug Ledford, alive and prospering in Boston, having rebuilt his circle in a trashy strip club and spinning a new web of infamy...

He paused at a name—Augustus Distephano. He knew that one. In his day, Distephano was one of the biggest dons on the east coast, though he had fallen off the scene years ago. He was listed as a mere men's room attendant, and Smecker couldn't help but see the irony. Augustus Distephano was once one of the most powerful men in the Boston mafia, and now he was reduced to shit.

He looked over the list again. Not only were there names—and lots of them— but birth dates, addresses, prior records, and day jobs. "How the hell did you get all this so fast?" he asked in amazement.

"We've had our eyes on Yakavetta for years," was the response. "Took him to trial a few times, but he rolled the jury, witnesses disappeared, the right people got the right payoff..."

"The usual shit," Smecker concluded.

"You got it."

Another one like Ledford. Well, the MacManuses would take care of him soon enough, and as for Ledford himself...

He set the file with the photo aside and kept the list of Yakavetta's men. "You did fantastic, Duffy," he said. "Now I need anything and everything you can give me on Marcus Greene. _anything_, you understand?"

Duffy's brow furrowed. "Does this have anything to do with the case we're working?" he asked.

"It's every bit as important," Smecker assured him. "Can you do it for me?"

Duffy nodded.

Smecker thanked him and set off in search of Distephano. If he wanted information of any value, he would have to give the old man a steep bribe first. If there was one thing mafiosos understood more than power, it was money.

And after all this was over, he would set his sights on Doug Ledford once more.

** So...did it live up to expectations? Most of the exchange between Renata and Smecker wasn't even written until the final edit! There's also my not-so-subtle hint that I'll be taking back the plot pretty soon. Just one more hurdle first, and it's going to be a doozy.**

** Leave me some love on your way out, and I'll see you next year!**


	28. Servatis A Periculum

** Hello hello! How is everyone? I see some new faves and subscribers on the roster; thanks, guys! Sorry for the long break for such a short chapter, but this one was the hardest so far and I took a little breather before I dug into it, a breather better known as "Trade You." If you're a Walking Dead fan in general and a Negan fan in particular, check it out!**

** Like I said, for being such a short chapter, this one was tough to get into the rhythm of. You don't want to know what the first draft looked like. Not easy making so much from the movie seem fresh, but I think I got it to work. The title, in case you're wondering, is Latin that translates roughly to "save us from danger" and is part of a chant taken from "Whisper" by Evanescence. If angsty emo goth rock is your thing, give it a listen.**

** Enjoy!**

The sun had vanished and the last of the light was fading from the sky. Connor checked his weapons one last time and looked to Murphy and Rocco. "Ready?" he asked.

They both nodded and the three of them got out of the car. Pappa Joe's house was farther up the street, and the lights over the sidewalks flickered into life in twos and threes with the vanishing daylight, illuminating long driveways up to enormous residences with sweeping lawns and aglow with vanity lights. It was eerily quiet with not even a breath of wind, just the steady hum of the streetlights to break the silence.

Rocco led the way up one of the long driveways, through the immaculate landscaping around the back of a large, elegant house. "There's gotta be an alarm system in a place like this," Murphy muttered.

"There is," Rocco replied softly. "Don't worry, I know the code."

They crept to the basement door and Murphy jimmied the lock with his knife, then they went inside...

* * *

Smecker hurried away from Distephano, his mind racing. It was a set-up. The brothers were walking right into a trap. If he was going to be in time to help them, he had to think fast.

He went back to the taxi waiting for him outside and gave the driver Yakavetta's address, trying to form a plan. In the movies, now would be the time to call for back-up, but that was hardly an option right now. And the options available were flimsy at best. The MacManuses would be outnumbered as it was, and one lone man couldn't hope to succeed where three were bound to fail.

The cab stopped at a red light and he gave a huff of impatience, looking out at the line of traffic. His eyes fell on a car parked across the street, with a provocatively dressed woman leaning in through the passenger side window trying to close a deal. He stared at her without seeing for a moment, then drew out the list of Yakavetta's associates. He read through the names and information provided until he hit upon one that read "Joey Bevo." It had stuck out in his mind for the handwritten note scribbled beside the name: _go-getter_.

It was a long shot, but it just might work...

* * *

It was dark in the basement, but a little flashing light and a small beeping noise led them to the keypad for the alarm system. Murphy flicked his lighter to illuminate the numbers and Rocco punched in a code. The alarm beeped three times, and he cursed. "Motherfucker changed the fuckin code!"

"Are ye sure?" Connor asked.

"Of course I'm fuckin sure!" He entered the numbers again, but the alarm kept beeping. "Shit! Fuck! What the fuck do we do?"

The alarm beeped three more times, then went off.

The sound was oddly reminiscent of the fiasco at Reg's house, but this wasn't an ambush on a few bouncers and drug dealers. This was the fucking lion's den, and judging by the hurried footsteps echoing through the ceiling, the whole pride was there to answer an attack. Murphy stowed the lighter again and the three of them scrambled to draw weapons and move to favorable positions. The darkness in the room was claustrophobic, pressing in on all sides with the thundering footfalls lending to the feeling, and the air was charged with unease and the first traces of panic. They stumbled and collided with each other in their efforts to regroup, cursing in whispers and fumbling blindly through the blackness—

A door burst open somewhere in the gloom and several shapes filled the chink of light from the hallway beyond. Connor, Murphy and Rocco leaped aside and Connor fell, landing on his injured leg and swearing with pain.

"In here!" one of the shapes yelled. "In the base—"

Murphy fired and the bullet caught the man in the head; he fell to the ground and two of his fellows stepped over him into the room, drawing guns.

Connor staggered to his feet as one of them hit the lights, blinding the intruders with the sudden glare. They got off several rounds that were deafening in the enclosed space, but the three of them returned the shots and finished them quickly. The bodies had barely hit the floor before Connor urged, "C'mon! Get a fuckin move on!"

They moved out into the hallway, tense and alert; Rocco motioned them along, and as they moved as silently as their urgency would allow, four men crept up behind them.

Connor was at the rear of the group; one of Yakavetta's men struck him over the head with the butt of his pistol and he fell again, both guns tumbling from his hands. Murphy turned to the assailants, preparing to shoot, but a second darted forward, slamming him against the wall. A third wrestled one gun away from him and punched him in the face when he raised the other; Murphy went for his knife but the man pinning him reached it first, yanking it from the sheath and pressing it to his throat.

"Murph!" Connor yelled. He made a grab for one of the fallen guns, and the goon that jumped him kicked him in the stomach then picked up the weapons. "You got him?" he asked the fourth man.

"I got him," he replied, having wrestled Rocco to the ground and standing with a foot on his chest and a gun pointed at him. "Rocco," he said, as amiably as if greeting a friend, "Pappa Joe wants a word with you..."

* * *

The old man could hear the screams all the way outside, echoing through the night like the howls of wounded dogs. Men such as these were always tearing each other apart in their power struggles and it was a wonder they ever needed his help in disposing of a rival. Not that he looked at it as helping. If anything, these crime lords were making his work easier, the _Lord's_ work, smiting evil and spilling the blood of the wicked.

He drew a cigar out of an inside pocket of his coat, trimmed it neatly with a penknife, then put it between his lips. Next he took out a book of matches and struck one, lighting the cigar before shaking out the flame and putting the spent match back in his pocket. He stood smoking calmly, watching the house and listening to the screams. From his vantage point he could see down the long driveway and across the back of the house, alert to every movement. Something caught his eye and he squinted to make it out— he would have to break down and get eyeglasses soon. A woman in a short black dress was making her way up the driveway, fluffing her hair and lighting a cigarette.

The old man swore under his breath. He would have to move in faster than he'd planned.

He crossed the yard with stealth and agility that belied his age and went to the utility meter on the side of the house. He followed the cables leading away from it, studying them closely for several minutes, then he drew a knife and cut two thick wires. He put the knife away and went to the door on the terrace, taking out a set of lockpicks and working on the door for a moment before there was a soft scraping noise like a key turning; he opened the door and went inside, catching a man unawares and slashing his throat before he even knew what was happening...

* * *

It happened as fast as a bullet sped from the chamber. Connor, Murphy and Rocco put up what resistance was possible in a storm of fear and fury, but they were already injured and it didn't take much to overpower them... Cuffed. Beaten. The wounds they had only just tended the day before were particularly vulnerable points Pappa Joe's men didn't mind exploiting. The echoes of the gunshot competing with Rocco's screams as Pappa Joe himself shot off another finger soon dissolved into sheer bloody panic. Then Yakavetta raised his gun one more time, and the three of them had a split second to realize what was about to happen before he shot Rocco in the chest...

* * *

Smecker straightened his curly wig one more time as he approached the front door of the house_. Steady, Paulie..._ He hadn't been undercover in years, and he had a feeling only dumb luck would carry the day this time. He knocked, hoping someone exceptionally stupid would be on the other side of the door, and his prayers were answered in the form of an exceptionally horny young man not inclined to look too closely past the hair and makeup. Now for a little namedropping, and maybe his gamble would pay off...

It did. The kid bought the story and led him into the house. After all, who would turn down a free hooker? And like any good hooker worth a decent trick, Smecker played the part to perfection, teasing his mark with the thought of a good time—up until he shot him, at least.

He approached the body cautiously, gun still trained and ready while still trying to wrap his mind around what he had done. No doubt about it, the guy on the floor was dead as disco. Smecker picked his fallen wig up and set it back in place, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Agent Myers's words from so long ago rang true in his memory; he had crossed the line now, and there was no going back...

It was quite liberating.

Footsteps carefully muffled in high heels, he stole through the house in search of the MacManuses. It was strangely quiet, and he'd been sure he heard faint screams from outside... He gunned down a second man and crept up on a third, the acrid smell of blood reaching his nostrils as he moved in closer.

The man's throat had been cut from one ear to the other. Before Smecker could make another move, there was a blunt pain at the back of his head and everything went to black...

* * *

It took forever, but Murphy managed to get his chair upright again after launching himself to the floor beside Rocco, helpless to do anything but watch as their friend choked on his last breath. Neither he nor Connor could help looking to his body every few seconds, shock and pain doing their best to smother logic and reason. They had to get free, had to escape. For Rocco.

Connor slipped the handcuffs binding one ankle loose from the chair leg as Murphy braced his left hand against the rung on the back of his chair. They couldn't think about it, there was no other way...Connor raised his foot and smashed the heavy heel of his boot against his brother's hand, the crack of fragile bones mingling with the cries Murphy tried to muffle into the collar of his shirt. He tried not to look as Murphy slid what used to be a working hand from the cuffs, focusing instead on getting his other leg free, and Murphy pushed the pain to the back of his mind as he got to his feet and stomped at the chair until it broke, releasing his right hand and wrenching the chair rung loose for a makeshift weapon.

One of Pappa Joe's men came back, and they fell on him with a savage bloodlust born of grief and vengeance. No swift execution in the midst of their rage, but such was their attack the man didn't die slowly either, and once he was dead Murphy checked his pockets for a handcuff key.

Freed of their bonds and with blood congealing at fresh wounds, the brothers tended to the fallen. They dragged the henchman's broken corpse to the side of the room and set Rocco's chair back on its legs. Exchanging not a word as they each drew a penny from their pockets, they set the coins in their friend's eyes and knelt to pray.

"_And shepherds we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee_..."

* * *

The old man paused in the basement doorway, listening intently. Two men knelt before the body of another, heads bowed as they prayed as one, and he knew those words...

"_Power hath descended forth from Thine hand_..."

* * *

Someone else had entered the room. They snatched up the guns they had taken from Pappa Joe's man and turned, poised to fire on the stranger in the doorway. He didn't look the least bit perturbed, merely taking the cigar from his mouth and beginning to speak.

"_That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command_..."

They lowered the guns uncertainly, watching as the old man stepped into the room. It wasn't possible. It _wasn't fucking possible,_ yet how could it be anyone else?

The old man finished their prayer—the prayer he taught them as children—and reached out to them; already numb with shock, they neither believed nor doubted as they laid eyes on their father for the first time in twenty years.

** Now I know what you must be thinking. "First time in TWENTY years? But the boys are twenty-seven and they've NEVER seen their father...this doesn't sound like canon..." And you'd be right, my dears, but I've got other things in mind. It's just a minor thing, but if the divergence offends you, feel free to stop reading. If, on the other hand, you don't mind mixing up a few secondary points and you want to see what I've got in the works, I'll see you back here soon. Maybe sooner than you think...**


	29. What Do You Stand For?

** Yep, it's a short one. On the other hand, you're getting it REALLY soon! Cool beans! Enjoy!**

Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly were waiting when Smecker arrived on the scene looking haggard and careworn, asking no questions and taking no interest in their surroundings, a vast departure from his usual observant and exacting manner. "All right, gentlemen," he said, "let's get this over with."

"Eight bodies total," Dolly began, "all but two of them shot and starting in the—" he stopped, staring hard at Smecker. "Are you wearing _makeup?"_ Duffy and Greenly looked closer as well, bearing expressions of awkward puzzlement.

"Not important," Smecker replied dismissively. In truth, he'd barely had time to get back to his hotel and get rid of the dress, wig and acrylic nails before the call came in—screams and gunshots from the house of a known mob boss and the discovery of several bodies.

The usual shit.

Dolly cleared his throat and continued. "One in the hall had his throat cut, then there's a guy in the basement...you thought that club manager was done by a psycho, you ain't seen a fuckin thing."

Smecker let it go in one ear and out the other. He had done some very quick, very serious thinking in the aftermath of the night's chaos and decided he needed the detectives on his side. They had been on the case since the beginning and their sympathies had been swaying for some time, like his own. He couldn't shield the MacManuses by himself, and Dolly and Duffy were good cops. Hell, even Greenly was getting better.

But how to convince them?

They moved through the house from one corpse to the next, and Smecker didn't have a thought to spare for how his disengaged attitude threw the detectives for a loop. This was bigger than the crime scene, bigger than any of them in the scheme of things. He could bring them around if he could just find the right argument...

"But this guy meant something."

They had reached the basement where Rocco's body waited, still handcuffed, pennies still set carefully in his eyes. Dolly walked around him, brow furrowed thoughtfully as he took in the scene. "He's the only one they left pennies with...the only one restrained..."

"There's that pileup in the hallway," Duffy ventured. "If I had to guess, I'd say he's one of our guys." Was Smecker imagining the regret he heard in Duffy's voice? "Maybe they got in a scrum on the way in and Yakavetta's boys won the fight."

"Not for long," Greenly pointed out, nudging the body on the floor with his foot. The man had been beaten so severely his body had a crushed, mangled look, misshapen where the bones were broken and with shards piercing through the skin. A rung had been snapped out of one of the overturned chairs and used as a crude weapon, still protruding from the dead man's neck.

"Who knows what the fuck they were thinking," Duffy said, shifting his gaze between Rocco and the man on the floor. "Mighta got reckless...they've had pretty good luck so far, but going after Yakavetta in his own house?"

"Where _is_ Yakavetta?" Smecker cut in.

"Not a fucking clue. He's not among the bodies, and it's not like they left any witnesses. Even the live-in cleaning lady skipped out."

Smecker held in a heavy sigh. If no one had found the man so far, then Rocco had died in vain. It had been hard enough to convince the brothers to leave his body behind, and now he couldn't even help them bring justice to his killer.

Wait a second...Smecker had found his argument.

"What have you gentlemen thought of this case so far?" he asked. "Just...in general."

Dolly shrugged. "It's been weird. I never saw anything like it before."

"Me neither," Greenly agreed. "And things being the way they are these days, I'm surprised we haven't seen more like this."

"You mean ordinary men doing something like this?" Smecker asked. "Picking up the pieces and carrying out justice when the system we serve is inadequate?"

The detectives paused, looking like they had sensed the first tremors before the earthquake. Confident he had them on the hook, he pushed forward. "Those mobsters at the hotel, the strip club and that house, then that slaughterfest on Saturday...every last one of you wishes you could do something like that. Don't take chances with trial by jury, just forget that shit and do what needs to be done. You're all thinking it, you have been for awhile now. Duffy, that kid snatcher is back on the street, isn't he?"

Duffy nodded grimly. "Case fell apart before it even went to court."

Smecker turned to Dolly next. "Why did you join the force, detective?"

Dolly fished awkwardly for the answer. "To catch bad guys," he said. "To make the streets safer."

"And what do you think every time one of the bad guys slithers through a hole in this flawed, imperfect system of ours?"

The detective looked down at the floor, then back up at Smecker, a candid light of conviction in his eyes. "It ain't fuckin right. Those pricks do some pretty fucked up shit and innocent people get hurt, and then they just fuckin get away with it."

Smecker nodded, then said, "Greenly, we don't often see eye to eye, but I remember hearing you say something about letting these guys clean up a little more."

Greenly didn't reply immediately, and his voice was defensive when he answered, "Why the fuck not? All these motherfuckers out here, we can't touch them within the limits of the law we swore to uphold."

"The self-same law that puts these motherfuckers back on the loose when they deserve to rot in the deepest, darkest hole we can find," Smecker pointed out.

There was silence in the room. Smecker looked at all three detectives, seeing the transformation begin to take place. The seed had been planted, and only needed time for the harvest to come in.

He stood beside Rocco's body, gazing down at the pennies, what was once a killer's signature alchemized into a tribute of love and loyalty. Connor and Murphy hadn't wanted to leave him behind, but they couldn't very well take him with them and staying with him was out of the question. It was only through his solemn promise to see their friend was treated with the utmost respect that Smecker had convinced them to flee. "Get the coroner down here," he instructed no one in particular. "I want this one out first."

Greenly left the basement without a word, having gotten into the habit of Smecker ordering him around. Dolly cast an uncomfortable look at the mangled corpse on the floor and followed, muttering something about seeing how things were going upstairs. Smecker and Duffy were the only ones left in the basement.

Smecker bent to examine Rocco's cuffed hands. One was bandaged—where he'd lost the finger in the shootout—and the other was bloody and missing another finger. He cast an eye over the cuts on Rocco's face and said, "Tortured and executed right in front of the others...no need to wonder at the rage over here." He nodded his head to the henchman. "And all of it on Yakavetta's orders."

"You wanted info on him yesterday," Duffy said, stepping forward. "Did you...did you _know_ they were going to come after him?"

"Rocco was a package boy for Yakavetta," Smecker went on, ignoring the question. "A _Who's Who_ of the east coast mafia. Once he turned on his boss, he was too much of a threat. Pappa Joe couldn't risk him taking down the entire enterprise."

"Pappa Joe? How do you—"

"They tried to get to him first. They went in too fast, they weren't ready."

"With all due respect," Duffy broke in, "but what the fuck is going on here?"

Smecker sent him an appraising look, but before he could answer Greenly returned with two men from the coroner's office. Forensics was close behind, photographing the scene and collecting samples. They struggled with the blood and Smecker knew it was futile; he himself had smuggled in a bottle of ammonia and saturated the stains in the basement until his head swam from the smell.

They used bolt cutters to cut Rocco's handcuffs and bagged them as evidence, along with the pennies. With Smecker watching every move they made, they put him in a body bag and bore him from the room, the agent and the detectives following behind. Smecker dogged their steps until Rocco was safe in one of the vans, then he turned to Dolly, Duffy and Greenly, all three of whom looked ready for some kind of explanation.

"Let's face it, gentlemen," he said, "we're all more concerned about nailing the prick that killed one of our guys than we are about cornering the other two. Half the boys in the department would rather let them carry on, and the other half doesn't give a shit either way. No one wants to be responsible for taking these guys off the streets."

"But it's our job," Duffy began. "We all swore an oath."

"I did, too. Believe me, I know how you feel. What sets us apart from the assholes we put behind bars, if not the law we serve?

"Justice."

The scene swarmed around them, flashing lights everywhere and people shuffling back and forth, creating enough commotion to muffle their conversation, yet not one of the detectives missed a thing. He looked them in the eye one after the other, then said, "They told us as rookies this job wasn't for the faint of heart, and they were right about that. But they never said a word about how the things we wanted to stand for would be compromised to the grossest extreme, or how we had to play along and act like we made a difference, like our best shot counted for shit when the bad guys got up and walked away. You learn to live with it, that's what they told us.

"And it's bullshit. This isn't what we set out to do when we took the job on. It's got to fucking stop."

"What are you saying?" Dolly asked.

"I'm saying there comes a time," Smecker replied, "when you have to decide what you stand for. In this case, do we do our jobs, or do we do something good? Do we serve the law, or justice?"

There was a silence following his words and it struck him anew how exhausted he was. He hadn't slept since Saturday and it felt as though his head was revolving on his shoulders, but there was still too much shit to do. They had to take down Yakavetta, and he hadn't forgotten about Doug Ledford. No, there was no time for sleep, and no time to waste at Yakavetta's house.

He lit a cigarette and said, "Think it over, gentlemen. When you have an answer for me, you know where to find me."

They didn't reply, and he turned away without another word. For all their sakes, he hoped they wouldn't take long to decide.

**The next chapter will be longer, so you're not getting it as fast as this one, but let's keep our fingers crossed that I can keep up this pace and get it to you, if not as quick, then at least reasonably quickly. And leave me some love on your way out!**


	30. Aftermath

** Happy St. Patrick's Day! And happy anniversary to this little story! Three years ago today I sat down and put pen to paper for Connor and Murphy, and I regret nothing. :) I'm stuck at work right now (not much different from last year, right?) but here's my version of celebrating.**

** Many thanks to the ever-awesome BoondockAngel for saving my ass as well as Murph's hand. It's pretty cool when you run into difficulties and you have someone willing to bail you out. A shout out to the new followers, and thanks to everyone kind enough to fave. **

** And without further ado, enjoy! :)**

Renata was cold with a dread no amount of praying and pleading could lessen. Fear clutched at her with icy hands, stabbing into her lungs with every breath she took and freezing her blood in her veins. She kept watching the door, waiting for it to open and staring at the nails beside it where Connor's and Murphy's rosaries hung when they were safe at home. There was something wrong and she knew it. They should have been back by now. Time was dragging along as she waited but the hands on the clock were moving steadily with no sign of the brothers, and every hour that passed sat ever more heavily on her shoulders. They should have been back. Something must have gone wrong.

It was nearly morning when the knock on the door resounded in the silence, and she nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to answer it. Throwing the door open with more force than was necessary, she had to clutch the frame for support when she saw them, her relief was so great. Connor and Murphy, alive and standing.

She drew them both into the apartment and threw her arms around Connor, then Murphy. "Jesus Christ," she burst out, "what happened? I was scared to death for you two!" She kissed Murphy, then turned back to Connor and kissed him too, running her fingers through his untidy hair. She couldn't stop touching either of them, unable to reassure herself they were really there, after the long hours of terror. She took in the blood and the bruises and her heart lurched, raising a hand to a cut on Murphy's brow. "If I had been there..."

"If ye'd been there, ye woulda got worse than this," he replied darkly. He was dangerously pale, holding his hand perfectly still though he was swaying with the effort to stay on his feet.

Her eyes fell on the hand and widened in shock. "Oh my God! What the fuck did they do to you?"

"I did it," Connor admitted, steering Murphy into a chair. He was nearly as pale, looking guilty and horrified as he stared at his brother's hand. "Didn't have a choice..."

"Had to," Murphy agreed, nodding even though he looked ready to be sick. "Wouldna made it outta there otherwise..."

"Aye." Connor wrenched the cap off Renata's whiskey and handed it to Murphy, who took several long gulps before lowering the bottle. Renata rushed forward to look at his hand; the majority of it was black with bruising and bloody from several cuts, but the worst part was the thumb, laying completely flat against the palm as no digit was capable of doing; if it wasn't for the skin, it looked like it wouldn't even be attached. "Holy shit, Murph," she groaned in sympathy, "we have to get you to a hospital."

"No."

The brothers spoke as one, but a third voice rang out as well, one Renata didn't recognize. She turned and saw the old man in the doorway, grim and austere, with a gaze that could chip through stone. She took in the tall frame, the gray hair, and the commanding, powerful presence, and asked, "Who the fuck are you?"

"Be polite, Renata," Connor told her. "He's our father."

She couldn't look more stunned if he had slapped her across the face. "Your _father?"_ she repeated incredulously. "But what—" She broke off, looking confused. "Where's Rocco?" Their silence spoke for them and she froze in disbelief, more shocked than ever. It was only a few days since he was trying to cheer her up before their job on Saturday; how could this have happened? As for Connor and Murphy—they must have been there, their best friend murdered before their eyes. "My God," she said, her throat tightening around the words. "I'm so sorry..."

Connor moved to her side and pulled her into his arms, bowing his head on her shoulder. He couldn't stop shaking, from reaction as well as emotion, and Murphy shuddered violently, losing a little more color as the movement disturbed his hand. "We gotta keep goin," he said at last. "It's what he wanted. We _gotta_ keep goin."

Connor nodded. "For Roc."

"I know," she replied, "but for Christ's sake, you need to go to the hospital."

"Renata—"

"You're both shot," she protested, gently pushing herself away from him, "and Murph's hand is fubarred, you can't _not_ go—"

"We can't risk it yet," the old man told her. "When it goes bad, ye have ta wait ta be sure the danger's passed."

She turned to the brothers. "Where did you pick him up, exactly?"

"At Pappa Joe's," Connor replied. "It's a long story."

Murphy took another swallow of whiskey. "Ye might as well sit down," he said to their father. "No sense standin in the doorway."

He walked into the apartment and took a seat on the couch. Connor sank into a chair close to Murphy, eyes red with threatening tears as shock and disbelief faded a little at a time. "Still can't fuckin believe it," he said softly. "He was right there, _right fuckin there_, an' we couldn't do anythin. We just watched him die..."

Renata moved suddenly as if to touch him, then held back with an involuntary glance at the old man. "What happened?"

"Fuckin _everything_ went wrong as soon as we got inside the fuckin house," Murphy answered, taking another shot of whiskey. "They came outta nowhere an' caught us by surprise, then just like that it was all fuckin over..."

* * *

The silence was thick with stupefaction. Connor and Murphy still knelt before Rocco's body, the loss of their friend a wound only beginning to bleed, and now this? Connor spoke first, if a bit hesitantly. "Da?"

Noah MacManus took off his sunglasses and fixed them with that sharp stare they had only distant memories of. If he was as stunned as they were, it was hard to tell. He took the cigar from his mouth, a few flakes of ash falling from the burning end, and said, "Of all the places ta see you boys again..."

Neither of them moved a muscle, still trying to wrap their minds around it. The man who had simply disappeared when they were kids, not only alive but in Boston—of all places. And it wasn't the first time they had seen him, either. "Ye tried ta kill us yesterday," Murphy said with the air of one struggling to make sense out of chaos.

Noah nodded. "Would ta Christ I'd known ye sooner," he replied. "We mighta saved a lot of trouble."

"But—" Connor began, at a loss for words, "how did ye get—"

"Later," Noah interrupted. "We have ta clean this up an' leave."

"We can't," Murphy interjected. "We're not leavin him here."

Noah glanced at Rocco, his bloodied corpse made at once eerie and sad by the pennies in his eyes, and said, "There's nothin more ye can do for him, an' we can't stay here. It's time ta go."

"We can't—"

"Yes you can."

All three men turned at the new voice; a woman stood in the doorway watching them all. No, not a woman, but a man wearing a dress and heavy makeup and carrying a pistol equipped with a silencer. Noah moved to shoot but Connor stopped him. "It's all right, we know him."

"Well, that's a relief," Smecker remarked dryly. His head still ached where the old man had clubbed him. He looked past them and his eyes fell on Rocco. "Shit," he muttered, "I'm sorry. I tried to get here sooner."

The brothers nodded absently and helped each other to their feet. Murphy stumbled and Connor caught his left arm to steady him, and pain shot through him as if he'd been struck by lightning. He clenched his teeth against the scream rising in his throat and Connor put a protective arm around his shoulders. "Fuckin hell, Murph," he said, remorse and guilt breaking into his voice, "ye know I didn't wanna do it—"

"Save it," Murphy shot back, his head spinning as a wave of nausea made the room whirl and tilt. "We don't have time for that shit right now."

"Precisely," Smecker agreed. "All of you need to disappear before any of us are found here."

"We're not leavin Roc," Connor protested stubbornly.

"What do ye think ye're gonna do with him, boy?" Noah questioned. "Take his body with ye an' hide out with him somewhere?"

"Stay the fuck out of it," Connor snapped.

"We managed twenty fuckin years without ye," Murphy added. "Ye don't get ta stick yer two cents in now."

"Well, _I_ do," Smecker cut in. "Every cop in Boston is on your trail, your friend here just got out on parole—"

"Parole? What the fuck—"

"And I just threw away my whole career by aiding and abetting wanted men," he continued. "Two of the bodies upstairs are my work. Do you think it's going to end well for any of us if we're caught?"

The brothers hesitated, torn. His argument was logical and their own common sense urged them to go while the getting was good, but with loyalty and solidarity having the upper hand, they couldn't budge. True, Rocco was beyond any help of theirs, but damned if they would abandon him in the house of his murderer.

Smecker tried again—the hell if he was going to throw in his lot with them for nothing. "What will you achieve to be arrested here? It won't do anyone any good to take you away from your work, and it sure as shit won't put you any closer to Yakavetta. Let that happen, and Rocco died for nothing. Is that really what you want?"

They didn't reply, so he softened his tone and went on, "You have my word, I will personally see that he is looked after. I'll allow nothing to disrespect him, and if you get the hell out of here, I'll help you get Pappa Joe."

"What about his mother?" Murphy asked. "Someone's gotta tell her."

"Consider it done. I'll do it myself."

Slowly, as if moving against their will, they both turned to Rocco. Murphy wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth and Connor laid a compassionate hand on his brow, and after a long moment of reverential silence they turned away. "Ye better take care a him," Connor warned Smecker.

Smecker nodded. "I promise. Get out of here while you can. I'll contact you later."

"Right."

Murphy turned to Connor, nodding towards Noah. "Is he comin with us?"

"Dunno." Connor addressed their father. "Are ye?"

"We have quite a lot ta be talkin about, don't ye think?" he asked.

"Sure. What the fuck."

With Smecker urging them on, all three MacManuses headed for the door. Connor and Murphy looked back on the threshold, and the last thing they saw was Rocco's still form as Smecker took a bottle of ammonia from his purse and got to work on the bloodstains.

* * *

A stillness hung over them as Murphy finished the tale. Tears glistened in his eyes, and Connor looked stricken anew with grief. "It just doesn't seem real," he whispered, the hitch in his voice keeping his tone soft.

Renata didn't hesitate again, moving between the two of them. She wrapped her arms around one, then the other, then knelt beside them, clinging to Connor's hand and resting her head on Murphy's knee. She shot a look in Noah's direction as if daring him to say something about it, but he was silent. "Now we wait?" she asked.

"We wait," Connor agreed.

The hours stretched on in an unbroken crawl, every moment lasting a lifetime with reprieve only a vague idea in the distance. Too exhausted even to sleep, they sat awake in absolute silence with never a word passing between them. Murphy continued to take shots at the Jack Daniels until Renata reached up and took the bottle away from him, putting the lid back on and setting it aside. His eyes were blank and glassy and though he sat unmoving, he still quaked with the pain in his hand.

Sunlight began to creep in through the windows after a time, proof once again that the world doesn't stop because one more person has left it. The sense of unreality following Rocco's death slowly fell away, leaving behind a jagged hole that seared and bled. A friend, a brother, fallen in the course of their mission, and it reminded them of their own mortality. Doing God's work or not, they could be shot down just like Rocco. He was gone forever in the blink of an eye and they would have to carry on without him, but it could be over for them just as quickly. They had shaped their lives around their mission and while they still believed in it, it could cost them a terrible price that, in the wake of Rocco, seemed too high. Even more terrible than losing Roc—what if they lost each other?

As the thought crossed their minds, Murphy reached out with his good hand and grasped Connor's, still entwined with Renata's, and Connor rested his atop the others, finding a modicum of reassurance against the future with what solace could be achieved in the present.

Renata didn't want to let them go, scared to do so after nearly losing them along with Rocco. She hadn't been close to their friend but she felt their grief along with them, mourning him as she had mourned her grandparents, feeling as well the reality of their situation. They had survived this time, but barely. What happened to Rocco could happen to them, martyrs to their cause like the Christians of old. One mistake and they could both be wiped off the slate, and what then? Even worse than that, it could be Connor _or_ Murphy, divided until death took the other. Knowing them as she did, she could feel that very fear running through them, and she held tighter to Connor and pressed closer to Murphy. It hadn't happened yet, and if they had to grieve their friend, at least they were both alive to do it together.

Noah sat watching the three of them, studying their behavior and still coming to terms with things. His boys, grown into men and following in his footsteps, though they had no way of knowing it. The years had never weighed so heavily on him as when he looked at them. They were only kids when he left and the time lost never struck him, carrying through the decades memories of his children as the children they had been. These young men he saw now were strangers in comparison. Never mind that he had missed them every day he was gone, he had missed the most important thing of all, watching them and guiding them from the boys they were into the men they had become.

They sat so close, his sons and the woman, like the only comfort left for any of them was in the other two, hands clasped tightly as welded steel. It only took two eyes and common sense to see what it was between them, and Noah saw another echo from his own past in the sight. He had been their age when his own mission became apparent, to eradicate the wicked in the Lord's name, and it wasn't long after that he met their mother. It was just the same with Annabelle as what he saw now, the certainty that there was no other on earth for any of them. He had tried to have both, his family and his purpose, but one finally called him away from the other until finally he made the greatest sacrifice of his life, one that never struck him as deeply as it did now. He knew how it must end for his sons and their young woman. Sooner or later, they would have to say goodbye.

The sun had risen when they heard a knock on the door. Connor struggled to his feet to answer it, and Smecker stood on the other side, garbed once more in suit and tie. He looked at least as spent as the rest of them, though he seemed to have survived the rest of the night with no injury.

Connor offered him a chair but he declined. "I can't stay long," he said. "They're finishing up at Yakavetta's house and interviewing the neighbors; someone saw his car pulling out of the driveway like a bat out of hell last night, and we're following a potential lead on where he might have been heading."

"What about Roc?" Connor asked.

"In the morgue. The coroner will do an autopsy, then he'll be released for burial."

"Did ye talk ta his mother?" Murphy inquired.

Smecker nodded. "I just came from her house. She was...devastated." Which was a gross understatement, in his opinion. The news had killed her while she continued to live and breathe. She didn't cry, scream or faint the way so many did when told of the death of a loved one. When she saw him on the doorstep that morning, she turned deathly pale and an unnatural stillness possessed her, and he could swear she knew why he was there. Even the dog, which had yapped and yelped when he first arrived, grew subdued as the life seemed to vanish from its mistress.

He pushed those thoughts aside and continued. "Forensics won't get anything from the scene, at least not from the two of you. I think it would be safe for you to go to the hospital and get checked out."

There was a collective sigh of relief around the room and Smecker's eyes lingered on Murphy's hand. "I want to extend my sympathy again," he said. "I understand he was a good friend."

Connor and Murphy nodded mutely.

"It's not the best time to talk right now, but we have a long road ahead of us. I need you to keep a low profile and not do anything rash. Can you promise me that?"

Murphy shrugged and Connor said, "Just get us Pappa Joe an' we'll call it even."

Smecker nodded. "I'll keep in touch. Now for God's sake, get to a fucking hospital."

He closed the door behind himself on the way out and silence held sway in his wake. There was too much unsaid between the four somber figures, and a heaviness even the morning couldn't banish, dark as the road ahead and leaden as the bullet that took one of their own.

* * *

There were no nuns or children in the emergency room that morning, but the similarities remained. Battered and injured after a narrow brush with death, having survived by the grace of God, and waiting. Always waiting these days, and lately it was for the moment their luck ran out.

Renata was with them, along with Noah. There was never a question of her accompanying them to the hospital, and never a word either way about him. He simply fell in with them like it was of no consequence, and they were too preoccupied to give him a thought. With two decades of separation between them, a few hours didn't signify.

"You'll be lucky if they don't want to operate," Renata told Murphy.

He glanced down at his hand and said, "Fuck that. They can reset it an' be done with it."

"The fuck ye say," Connor told him. "If they gotta operate, they're gonna do it whether ye like it or not. It's fucked enough as it is, ye can let em salvage the fucker, at least."

Murphy stared at the floor, hearing the bitterness in his brother's voice. Bad enough he had dealt the injury in the first place, without any permanent damage to remind him of it.

Connor sighed and glanced down at the marks on his wrists where Checkov's handcuffs had cut him weeks before. "We're almost back ta the beginning," he said to no one in particular.

"Aye," Murphy agreed, "but how's it gonna end?"

Renata gazed around the empty chairs in the waiting room and said, "Do you remember what you said the day Benny took me out of here?"

"Not really," he admitted.

"He had me by the hair and was dragging me to the door," she replied, "and you and Connor tried to stand up for me."

Connor nodded in recollection. "We didn't get very far, though, did we? I couldn't fuckin walk an' still wanted ta tear that asshole a new asshole, an' Murph had ta be the voice a reason."

"'He'll have his day,'" Murphy concluded, remembering at last.

"Exactly," Renata said. "I know it's not much, but for what it's worth, all this shit with Rocco and his boss, that prick will have his day."

"Aye," Connor agreed, "or else Agent Smecker best find someone else ta do his dirty work."

"Ye think that's his angle?" Murphy asked.

"Aye. Think about it. Why else would he go so far ta keep us off the fuckin hook if he didn't have a few fellas on his shit list, cases that never closed an' guys that got away with it?"

They hardly had time to consider it when a nurse appeared at the end of the hallway and called, "Murphy MacManus."

Murphy stood with some effort, waving off Connor's attempts to help him up. Moments later, another nurse called Connor's name and he too disappeared, leaving Renata and Noah alone.

She fidgeted in her chair, worried about the brothers and uncomfortable with their father. He hadn't said a word since they arrived at the hospital, but she was sure nothing had escaped that shrewd regard. In that respect, he was even worse than Marcus. She continued to stir, giving him occasional sideways looks, until eventually he said, "When ye have somethin ta say, dear, it's usually best just ta say it."

She heaved a great sigh, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "So...you're their dad," she said lamely.

He nodded, gazing around the waiting room. "Aye, that I am."

She lapsed back into quietness, absently rubbing her hands together. It was odd to sit there and say nothing, but nothing she could think to say was anything but awkward. "They're good guys," she finally decided on. "They bailed me out awhile ago when I was in a tight spot."

"They were raised right," Noah replied.

"By their mother."

It slipped out without thought, and the look he shot her pierced her in place. She faltered but didn't break. "They said you were...absent."

"True enough," he said. "I wasn't around as a father should be, but not because I didn't want ta be."

"Then why?"

There was no visible change in his manner, but his tone grew hard and decisive. "Pardon my sayin so, but that's hardly yer business."

She leaned back again and said, "You're right, it isn't. Excuse me, it's just that my dad left too."

"He musta had his reasons."

"Yeah, he was cheating on my mother."

"Not a good reason, then, but still a reason."

"Is there _any_ reason good enough to walk away from your family?"

"Perhaps." Now the words were heavy, as if weighted down by a burden carried too long. "Ye're young, ye still have time ta learn."

She was tempted to ask _Learn what?_ but she kept her mouth shut, choosing instead to stare up and count the tiles in the ceiling.

Connor came out first, his cuts bandaged and stitched as needed, and he sat with his companions to wait for Murphy. "No sign of him yet?" he asked.

"Neither hide nor hair," Renata answered. "If I had to guess, I'd say he's in surgery."

He nodded, then sat quietly for a moment before turning to Noah and asking, "How the fuck did ye end up here?"

"That's quite a long story," Noah told him.

"It usually is," he replied. "We got plenty a time as far as I can tell." Noah stayed quiet and Connor pressed, "Smecker said ye were out on parole. What the fuck's that about?"

"Fifteen years inta a life sentence," Noah finally said. "Twenty-five ta life, that is, though I was like ta stay there an' rot."

"Jesus Christ," Renata said.

"What were ye in for?" Connor asked.

Noah glanced past him to Renata. "Might be best not ta say."

"Murph an' I trust her. What ye say ta us, ye can say in front a her."

Where Noah couldn't see, she found Connor's hand with hers and gave it a squeeze.

The old man nodded and carried on. "Murder. A hit man for anyone with an enemy." Connor and Renata stared at him and he added, "Not nearly as bad as it sounds. The ones I did were all criminals an' wrongdoers. I did no more than judge an' jury shoulda done first." They remained silent and he concluded, "Best wait for yer brother, Connor. He needs ta hear it as much as you."

Connor nodded without a word.

They waited and waited. Renata fell asleep after a time, her head resting against Connor's shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her to keep her close.

Noah sat watching them and asked, "How long have ye known her?"

"Off an' on for awhile," Connor answered, "but not seriously til a couple weeks back."

"An' how long have ye boys been shaggin her?"

For all that he hadn't seen his father in years, it was like no time had passed and he was a little boy called to answer for mischief. His ears flushed red and he shifted awkwardly in his chair, avoiding eye contact. "What are ye talkin about?"

"Ye're not foolin me, son, an' I'm not the one ta judge ye. Ye're both grown an' ye can make yer own choices."

Connor relaxed and said, "Not that long." He paused—what was going on between him, Murphy and Renata wasn't anyone's fucking business—but while Noah had been out of the picture for decades, Connor still felt as though he owed his father an explanation. "I know it's not—not _usual,_ an' we might be in the wrong for it, but...I just can't see it that way, Da. It just happened, an' at the same time it couldn't be any other way. Not for any of us. Some might judge us an' call it sin, but..." He trailed off, reaching up to brush Renata's hair off her forehead, knowing his heart was in his eyes as he looked at her and unable to care who saw it.

Noah regarded them for a moment then said, "The Lord can't count it as sin when ye care. Ye have ta make the most of it while ye can. It won't last long."

Connor didn't answer.

Murphy eventually appeared after what felt like hours, looking hungover and with his left hand strapped into a brace. He collapsed into the chair between Connor and Noah with a loud groan, then assured them, "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Bullshit," Connor contradicted.

"No, really, I'm serious. Ye dislocated me fuckin thumb's all. Doc said he'd never seen one bend that way before." He sounded vaguely proud of it.

"So, no surgery?" Connor asked.

"No surgery. Had ta do a reduction thing, whatever the fuck that is, ta get the swelling down, an' just popped the fucker back inta place. Tore a few ligaments, but no broken bones. Gotta go easy on it for awhile, an' gotta get this filled." He held up a prescription for painkillers. "What did _you_ get, a few stitches? Fuckin pussy."

Connor rolled his eyes. "Macho fuckin Murph." Yet there was already a weight off his shoulders, knowing he hadn't done any serious damage, and he began to feel a little less guilty about his part in the disaster. "Did they tell ye anythin else?"

"Aye, I got a whole fuckin list a shit I have ta stick to. Elevation, compression, range a motion, shit like that. Told em they better write it down, coz I'm not comin back in."

"That's the spirit, boyo." Connor turned to Renata and shook her awake. "C'mon, love. Time ta go."

She opened her eyes blearily and sat up straight. "Is Murph out yet?"

"Yeah. He's here, an' he's fine."

She looked first at Murphy, taking stock of him to be sure he was in one piece, then at Noah. "Is he coming with us?"

"I've got a spot worked out," Noah answered. "No need for it ta get too crowded."

The three of them all looked in opposite directions like children caught in the act.

"We still need ta talk," he went on, "so I'll see if I can drop by in a day or so. Til then, take care a yerselves."

They all nodded wordlessly and Noah walked away. They remained motionless until he disappeared through the doors at the end of the hallway, then finally got to their feet and left the hospital.

The drive home was a silent one. It was early afternoon by the time they stopped to fill Murphy's prescription and got back to the apartment, the sunlight filling the loft seeming unnatural given the dark mood among them. The brothers hung their rosaries on the wall as usual and Renata took their coats from them and piled them on the couch.

Without so much as a word they began to undress, the brothers with varying degrees of difficulty due to their injuries and Renata offering a delicate hand when necessary. Leaving their clothes scattered across the floor, they made their way to the bed, laying down side by side and keeping close, each needing the reassurance of the others' presence. Connor lay flat, stretching his injured leg with a grimace, and tucked his arm around Renata's waist while she lay her head on Murphy's chest, keeping clear of the gunshot wounds and the bad hand, saying softly, "I'm sorry about Rocco."

Murphy edged even closer to her and Connor shifted enough to graze her temple with his lips. "Sorry about yer hand, Murph."

With his good hand, Murphy reached up and whacked him on the head. "I thought we were gonna die in there," he said quietly.

"Aye," Connor agreed just as quietly. "Me, too."

"Stop talking like that," Renata told them both. "You made it out, you got back home."

He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in. "How was it while ye were alone?" he asked.

She thought of Stacy and Marcus, the guilt she couldn't medicate away, and the crushing fear that Connor and Murphy would never return. She took a shuddering breath in and out and said, "It was hell."

**Stay tuned! More to come! And leave me some love on your way out. :) **


	31. I Swear

** Hey all! I hit some bumps in the road the last couple of weeks, so I'm glad I can get this out to you. Thanks a million to the new readers, reviewers and everyone who faved. I appreciate the hell out of you! :) Wish me luck, I think this next chapter might take some tinkering...**

** Enjoy!**

After leaving Southie, Smecker returned to his hotel room for a few hours rest before setting himself to work. The Boston police were hot on Yakavetta's trail, beginning a third attempt to take him down, but Smecker didn't concern himself with that. He concentrated on the man no one had thought to investigate before an unlikely source produced an unwitting lead.

He cleared up everything to do with the MacManus case, dumping the paperwork into an empty chair before opening the file Duffy had cobbled together. Most of the information was on Reggie McDowell, of course, but he knew what to look for. Douglas Ledford, now hiding in Boston as Marcus Greene, entrepreneur in the adult entertainment business and likely keeping a finger in a few other pies as well, with drugs, weapons and prostitution being the most probable. It would be impossible to link him to any illegal activity—that was the snag that had thwarted him before, when he had to play by the rules and trust the court to win the battle for him. That wasn't so anymore. This time, justice would be swift and unflinching.

Time slipped away from him as he pored over the file, gathering notes and narrowing down points that needed further inquiry. He worked until he could go no further with the material, then got his coat and headed for the police department.

Dolly, Duffy and Greenly looked like they had been going since Yakavetta's house and the road proved hard and bumpy. "What's the latest?" he asked.

"We're waiting on a search warrant for the house and office," Dolly replied.

"The judge is laughing his ass off right now," Duffy commented dryly. "This is the third time we've called him for this shit."

"The third time's the charm," Smecker reminded him.

"We've never had half a dozen bodies right in his fuckin house before," Greenly added.

"True enough. Anything else?"

"Not yet," Duffy answered. "We still haven't found Yakavetta, but I think if we flush out a few of his guys and put the screws to them, we might get more to go on."

Smecker shrugged. "It might work," he agreed, though he doubted they would learn much that would stick. The justice system had proved useless in vanquishing Pappa Joe thus far and he was confident it would continue to do so. Their only real chance was the MacManuses, and he would bet everything on that, down to the last penny. The last two pennies.

The detectives stood watching him, all looking like they had something to say but unsure what words to use. He looked at each of them inquiringly. "Yes?"

"We got—we got something we need to talk about," Duffy began. "But not out here, somewhere in private."

Smecker nodded, expecting as much, and motioned them ahead. "Lead on."

The four of them set off for an empty interview room and Smecker seated himself on entry. It seemed they hadn't needed much time to decide after all. "Fire away, gentlemen."

Duffy closed the door and said, "We've been thinking about what you said. Thinking hard."

Greenly nodded. "What our guys are doing, it's pretty fuckin out there, you know?"

"I would consider it unorthodox," Smecker agreed.

"Well yeah, no shit, but it's something, right? It's more than we can do stuck going by the book."

"You sound a little envious, Greenly."

"What serious cop wouldn't be?" Dolly asked. "Anybody who's busted his ass for the sake of right and wrong only to have some asshole skate by in the end would be jealous as fuck."

"It's unorthodox," Greenly added, "but it makes sense. They're doing what we should have been doing the whole fuckin time."

"We wanted to clean up the streets," Dolly chimed in, "so why the fuck aren't we getting down to it?"

"So I take it you have an answer for me?" Smecker asked.

"Fuck yeah," Greenly replied. "Whatever you're doing, if it's got anything to do with the guys we've been tailing, we're in."

"Justice," Dolly affirmed.

Smecker nodded, then turned to Duffy. "You've stayed pretty quiet so far," he said. "Do you have any input?"

Duffy shrugged. "I don't know. It makes sense, to a degree, going out wild west style and playing by their rules, but where does it end? When does what they do cross the line?"

"I'm not sure I follow."

"It's wrong to kill," Duffy went on. "Not just according to society, but every code of ethics and morality known to man. Sometimes you don't have a choice and you have to defend yourself, but to just go out and take a life without need, all for the greater good, that's just fuckin crazy. Ordinary men can't decide for themselves that they're the new law."

"We're not talking about the fuckin law," Greenly argued. "The law had its nuts clipped ages ago, that's what we're all bitching about."

"There has to be a distinction between us and the guys we put away. That line will get harder and harder to see the farther down that road we go, and we'll end as corrupt as them, putting ourselves above the rest of society."

"There already is a distinction," Dolly insisted. "They do what they do for their own benefit. If we do this, we are serving the greater good."

"It's a fuckin razor's edge," Duffy countered. "One wrong step and you're cut. If this gets out, it'll get out of hand and there'll be a whole crowd of average Joes arming up to save the world, running amok in a misguided attempt at heroism. It'll be anarchy, just like you said," he concluded, looking at Smecker.

"So you wanna sit back and do nothing while the world goes to shit?" Greenly asked.

"I'm not saying that," Duffy answered, "but I'm not sure if this is the answer."

Smecker studied him for a moment, gauging his logic and the validity of his arguments. For all his reasoning, he was on the fence, and if Smecker had learned anything about him in the past few weeks, then all he had to do was sway him with the right counterargument. "Are you a God-fearing man, Duffy?"

He looked surprised at the question but he nodded. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"You read your Bible regularly and go to church on Sundays?"

"I try. Why do you ask?"

"When I worked in Washington," Smecker replied, "there were always people gathered somewhere in the city protesting something, and capital punishment was one of their favorite issues. What right have we, they wanted to know, to decide who should live or die, to play God with our fellow man? It was barbaric and inhumane, they said, an unfit practice for a civilized society. The strangest counterargument I ever heard came from a Bible-thumper from the old school, quoting Numbers 35:33. Do you know that one, Duffy?"

Duffy cast his memory around, then began, "'So ye shall not pollute the land wherein ye are...'"

"'For blood defileth the land,'" Smecker continued, "'and the land cannot be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein but by the blood of him that shed it.'" He paused for effect then added, "Then Deuteronomy 19:13. 'Thine eye shall not pity him, but thou shalt put away the guilt of innocent blood from Israel, that it may go well with thee.'"

The room was silent. Smecker suspected that for all his eccentricities, none of the detectives expected him capable of reciting Scripture. He spread his hands in demonstration. "There you have it, gentlemen. Straight from the Man Upstairs. What is stained with innocent blood can only be washed clean by the blood of the guilty. We represent a system that shames this commandment, and it's only right that we turn the tables and set shit straight. After all, we don't want to incur the wrath of the Almighty, do we?"

Duffy stood in deliberation, considering all the new angles, and Smecker could see the balance tipping in the right direction. "While I'd like to avoid a smiting, we're talking about aiding and abetting serial killers, there would be some serious fuckin jail time if we got caught..."

"I'm glad you appreciate the risks. Are they worth the rewards?"

"Well, there's going to prison for doing the right thing, and there's going to Hell for doing nothing," Duffy replied, "and when you think of it that way, I know which one sounds more appealing."

"I need you to be sure, Duffy. Consider this the most important decision of your life. There's no going back from this."

Duffy took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm in. I'll do it."

Smecker smiled. "Glad to have you on board, detective," he said sincerely. "Now, are you three ready to hear who our guys are?" They nodded expectantly and he announced, "Connor and Murphy MacManus."

He couldn't have asked for a better reaction, a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and dare he say pride? The brothers had certainty made an impression after the Checkov incident, their reputation as the saints of South Boston didn't hurt, and their crusade against evil was already legendary. They were heroes in their own time.

"No fuckin way," Greenly said, speaking for all three of the detectives.

Smecker nodded, his smile widening. "Why didn't we think of it sooner, right?"

Dolly chuckled. "Those fuckin guys are our fuckin guys. We shoulda figured that out ages ago."

"Now we know, and we have work to do. I already promised them Yakavetta."

"We got the entire department on that," Greenly pointed out.

"They won't get anywhere," Duffy replied. "We haven't done it yet."

"The good news is, we don't have to worry about the rigmarole this time," Smecker reassured them. "In the meantime, something else has come up, and we need to deal with it as soon as possible."

"What's that?" Dolly asked.

"Have any of you ever heard of Douglas Ledford?"

Greenly shook his head but Dolly and Duffy looked thoughtful. "I remember hearing the name years ago," Duffy said. "The media called him the worst gangster of the modern era."

"They weren't far off," Smecker confirmed. "His was my first major case with the Bureau, and he makes Pappa Joe Yakavetta look like Mr. Rogers. He had a hand in everything that went on up and down the East Coast. Name any crime syndicate of the day, and Ledford had dealings with them. I almost had him back then, but before we could take him to trial our only witness backed out, too scared to testify. The case fell apart after that."

"Ok. What about him?"

"Douglas Ledford is Marcus Greene."

Dolly and Greenly were unmoved but Duffy understood. "The owner of the Sin Bin?"

"One and the same," Smecker replied. "And he's back to his old game. It's the first time since he fell off the federal radar that I've known where he is and what he's up to."

"And you want to send the MacManus boys after him?" Dolly concluded

"When you put it that way, it sounds like I'm releasing the hounds. They'll have to agree to it."

"Why the fuck wouldn't they?" Greenly asked. "Popping bad guys is what they do, it's what we've been chasing them for."

"They'll be out of commission for awhile," Smecker explained. "Things went south at Pappa Joe's."

The detectives shared expressions of concern. "Are they all right?" Duffy asked.

"They made it out in one piece, but it was their friend executed in the basement." He didn't need to say more. Every cop knew the feeling when a brother fell in the line of duty. "I don't want any of you running over there checking up on them. We can't draw attention to ourselves, and especially not to them. Our top priority from now on is to keep them out of prison. Understand?"

They nodded.

"I need your word, gentlemen. Don't let on to any living soul what we're doing, do nothing that puts the MacManuses at risk, and you might as well swear on everything you hold dear that you're committed to this. Once you're in, there's no backing out."

"I swear," Greenly vowed, and for all that he was a loud-mouthed half-wit Smecker was glad he was ready to embrace what was ahead of them.

"I swear," came Dolly, "on my honor as a Dollapoppskalious."

Smecker smiled.

Duffy nodded solemnly. "I swear," he said. "I'm committed." He gave a grim smile. "You know, when I woke up this...whenever the last time was, this wasn't how I pictured the day going."

"And it's not over yet," Smecker told him. "We've got a lot of ground to cover, gentlemen, now let's get to work."

**Leave some love on your way out!**


End file.
